


Making a Family

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-08 06:03:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 64,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13452057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: When Barba calls Benson for help, she has no choice but to respond. They've been friends for far too long for her to let hurt feelings get in the way. It soon becomes clear, however, that they'll have to acknowledge all the things they've kept silent or risk losing their friendship.





	1. Chapter 1

Barba frowned at his phone.

“Everything okay?” Benson asked, alerted by the change in his expression, but he was already answering the call. She watched as his frown deepened and, after a moment, he turned partway away from her.

“I’m sorry?” he said. “Are you…I…” He paused, listening. She could sense his agitation, and she rose from her chair without thinking, moving to the edge of her desk. “I—Yes, I understand. I’ll be there. Yes, give me…” He glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes. Thanks.”

He hung up and stared at the phone.

“Rafael?” she asked, stepping toward him. “What is it?”

He glanced at her, but didn’t quite meet her eyes. That was so unlike him that she stopped, her concern growing. “I—Sorry, I’ve gotta go. We’ll finish later,” he said, and then he was striding toward the door.

“Barba,” she called.

“Sorry, Liv,” he answered, but he didn’t stop or look back, and she quelled her urge to go after him.

 

*       *      *

 

Benson answered her phone: “Barba? Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to—”

“Liv, I need your help.”

Already on her feet, she said, “What’s wrong? Are you—”

“It’s not—it’s not like that. It’s personal. Can you come by my place?”

Grabbing her coat as she left her office, she said, “You haven’t returned my calls for three days, Barba. I called your office, they said you transferred all your cases for the whole week? I went to your apartment yesterday, and you didn’t answer—”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she could hear the strain in his voice. He also sounded muffled, as though he had the phone covered with his hand, and she tried not to let her imagination run away with her. He’d said it was personal, not an emergency. Somewhere, in the background, she could hear a young child crying, and she told herself he was just trying to block out the sounds of his neighbors.

She _was_ worried, though, she’d been worried for days. He got a mysterious phone call that clearly upset him, and then he refused to look at her—eye contact was Barba’s _thing_ , she’d _never_ seen him avoid someone’s stare—before disappearing for three days. No calls, no texts, he wasn’t going to court, wasn’t seeing clients. She’d come close, numerous times, to calling his mother, but didn’t want to force her way into something that was none of her business. He knew that he could call her, any time, for anything.

The fact that he hadn’t, that he’d completely shut her out of whatever had been going on, hurt. She didn’t want it to hurt, but it did.

He’d called her now, though, and he was clearly upset. “Liv, please, don’t make me beg,” he said, sounding subdued.

“I’m on my way,” she answered.

 

*       *       *

 

As soon as she got to his door, she realized that the crying was not coming from a neighbor’s apartment, but Barba’s. He answered her knock quickly, before she’d had much time to consider the realization, and his appearance did nothing to allay her worries.

He hadn’t shaved, or brushed his hair. He was wearing jeans and a wrinkly t-shirt. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him looking so _unkempt_ , and mixed in with her concern, she felt a sudden and unexpected pull of attraction that caught her off guard.

He hadn’t slept much, either—the exhaustion was carved into the lines of his face, and she could clearly read the desperation in his green eyes. She looked past him at the little girl sitting on the rug in front of the couch, crying. Her face was red, splotchy, her sobs were hiccuppy—she’d been crying for a long time. She was close to crying herself to sleep, but she was clinging to consciousness and misery with stubbornness.

“Liv—” Barba started.

“ _What_ is going—Whose kid is this?” she asked, but before he could answer, she pushed the door wider and walked into his apartment. He stepped back and then closed the door behind her. She walked over to the little girl and sank into a crouch, saying, “Hey, sweetie, it’s alright.” The child looked up at her with wide, watery eyes, hiccupping. She couldn’t be more than two years old. “Come here, honey,” Benson said, picking the girl up and hugging her to her shoulder. She could feel the sobs, quieter now, wracking the kid’s tiny body, but the girl didn’t try to pull away or object to being held.

Benson turned to look at Barba. It wasn’t just the messy hair and clothes that were surprising—he seemed closer to a breakdown than she’d ever seen him; closer than she might’ve believed possible, in fact. She’d seen him lose his cool, though not often. She’d _never_ seen him so distraught, so desperate, though.

“Barba,” she said. The creases in his face deepened, and his eyes shone, and for a moment, she thought he was going to lose it completely. She wanted to comfort him, but she needed to understand what was going on, first. She rocked the child in her arms, rubbing her back.

“If you can just get her to…feel better, I’ll explain everything,” he said.

“Has she eaten?” Benson asked.

“My mom got her to eat, but that was a few hours ago. She still won’t take anything from me.”

Benson bit back the dozen questions that sprang to her tongue, took a breath, and said, “Her pull-up is wet, for starters. Do you have more?”

“All her stuff is in the bedroom,” Barba said, gesturing.

“Go in the bathroom, splash some water on your face,” Benson said. “Your stress isn’t helping. I think she’ll be asleep in a few minutes. Where do you want me to put her down?”

Barba met her eyes. “You’ll see,” he said. Before she could answer, he turned and strode away, escaping into the bathroom.

Benson had been to his apartment before, but she’d never been in his bedroom. It was pretty much as she’d expected—mostly black and white with a few red or gray accents. There were no personal photos, and very little ornamentation or memorabilia; everything was neat and clean, organized. The bed was made, although the quilt was just a bit wrinkled, as though he’d been lying on it. She was sure that if she opened the closet, she would find his clothes hanging neatly—probably organized by color, with splashes of pink and yellow and blue that would feel out of place in the room if she didn’t know him so well—with his shoes lined up evenly beneath.

Everything as expected, with one exception. In the corner, there was another bed, a toddler’s bed, with a pink comforter that might blend into his closet better than the bedroom; at the foot of this little, pink bed, there was a small wooden shelving unit with the cubbies full of pull-ups, little girls’ clothes, a few stuffed toys, and some chunky cardboard books.

“Let’s get you out of this wet stuff, honey,” Benson said.

The girl was still crying, but her purple eyelids were heavy and her grief was quieter. She looked at Benson with wide, tearful green eyes. “ _Mama_ ,” she said, and her voice was full of such hurt and confusion that Benson pulled her into a hug, her heart breaking for the little girl.

“I know, honey,” she said. She didn’t know where the child’s mother was or if she would ever see her again, so she said the only thing she could: “It’s gonna be alright. Shh, I’ve got you, you’re okay.” She started humming, rocking, and the child’s head drooped against her shoulder as she sniffled. Soon, she was asleep, exhausted from her heartbreak. Benson changed her out of the wet pull-up; the girl didn’t stir.

Her shirt was wet with tears and saliva, so Benson tucked her into bed in nothing but the fresh pull-up. She kissed the girl’s sweaty forehead and smoothed back her dark curls.

Once she’d watched for a couple of minutes to make sure the girl didn’t grow restless, Benson closed the bedroom door partway and went to find Barba. He was sitting on the sofa, elbows on knees and head in hand, and she stopped in the middle of the room, looking at him.

“How long’s she been here?” she asked.

Without looking up, he answered, “Two nights. She was okay when my mom was here.”

“I need you to look at me, Barba,” she said.

He pulled a breath in through his nose and, after a moment’s hesitation, lifted his head.

“Is she yours?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he held her gaze. “Yes,” he answered, barely audible.

“Her mother?”

He shook his head, once. “Car accident. That was the call…in your office…”

Benson grimaced, her heart breaking for the little girl who’d cried herself to sleep wanting her mother’s arms. She tried to ignore the flare of jealousy—Barba was free to sleep with whomever he chose—but she couldn’t avoid the next question: “Were you and she—”

“No,” he cut in, before she could finish. “We went to school together—sort of. She was the younger sister of a friend. I ran into her during…everything that went on with…Alex and Eddie.” Benson nodded, because she knew that had been an emotional time for Barba. She did some mental calculations, and the numbers didn’t help her irrational sense of hurt and jealousy. The allegations against Alex Muñoz were four years earlier. Barba, watching her, seemed to guess the train of her thoughts. “We kept in touch a little, just checking in every once in a while, for over a year. Nothing happened, not until two years ago—almost three years ago. I was—”

“I don’t need to hear this,” she interrupted, despising the acid churning in her stomach. “Your relationships are none of my business.”

“It wasn’t a relationship,” he said. “At least, not the way—”

“There’s a little girl in there,” she reminded him, pointing back toward the bedroom. He winced and fell silent. “How did this—It’s not like you to be careless, Barba.”

“I’m human, Liv. I made a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

He winced again. “I didn’t mean it like—Not _her_ , I just…”

“You didn’t know?”

“Of course not,” he said, and she could see the pain and guilt in his face. And, she could see that he was hurt by the idea that she had such little faith in him.

“Of course not,” she repeated, quietly. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I know that you would’ve been there if she’d told you.”

“Yes.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I have no idea,” he said. He shook his head, his eyes wide, and spread his hands. “What do I do?” he asked.

“You said your mother was here? She must be thrilled to have a granddaughter, I’m sure she’ll—”

“She told me it was time to sink or swim.”

“And you called me for help? Really, Barba, I’ve never known you to be a misogynist.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You know I didn’t think of you as a woman.”

She knew he didn’t mean for that to hurt, and she did her best not to let him see that it did. Even agitated to distraction, and sleep-deprived, he was too observant, though. He saw it, and she could tell by the way his expression tightened.

“You’re the best mother I know,” he clarified, slowly. “And—Liv, I don’t know what I’m supposed to _do_. How do I…help her?”

“Comfort her?” she asked, spreading her hands. “This is not rocket science, Barba. You’ve been around _children_ before.”

He looked at her, and in spite of her own hurt feelings, her heart went out to him. She cared about him too much to kick him while he was down. She walked over and sat beside him on the sofa.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Rosa,” Barba said. “Rosa Lucia Barba, she gave her my name, my mother’s name, and I didn’t even know.” He shook his head, swallowing. “But Carla called her Rosie. She’s almost two. They said she’s talking quite a lot, Spanish and English—”

“Sounds like your kid,” Benson said, a gentle attempt at a joke.

Barba managed the ghost of a smile in response, but he said, “She talked to my mom a little but she won’t say anything to me except to ask for her mother, and she won’t eat. She cries even louder if I go near her. I don’t know what to do, how to help her. I just…I can’t help thinking she might be better off if social services—”

“Barba, you and I both know that’s not true. Listen, I know it’s hard, she’s scared, confused, she doesn’t trust you yet. You just have to be patient.”

“Liv, I’m sorry to call you…like this…It’s just, I knew you’d be able to help her and she’s so _miserable_. I know I’ve…handled this badly.”

“You shut me out, Rafael,” she said, and he could hear the pain in her voice. Her pain—and knowing that he’d caused it—hurt him deep inside, and he hated himself for avoiding her.

“And you still came when I called. I know I don’t deserve it.” Looking at her, he had to be honest. “This is not exactly my proudest moment, Liv. I was in a bad place, and Carla knew it. But I can’t help thinking I must’ve been more of an asshole than I realized, if she didn’t want to tell me…that she was pregnant. I was as honest as I could be, but if she thought…If she didn’t think I would’ve been there…”

Benson put a hand on his arm. “Whatever happened with you and… _Carla_ is your business, but Rosie’s been here for two nights and you have her bed in your room, your mom’s been here helping, I can see that you’re trying. Just give her time to adjust. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

“Liv, I don’t know anything about being a father. All I learned from mine was what _not_ to do.”

“That’s a good place to start,” she said. She was still thinking about his words— _I was in a bad place, and Carla knew it_. Four years ago, Benson knew he’d had trouble dealing with Alex and Eddie facing legal troubles. After that, Barba had suffered the loss of his grandmother, and there’d been the Grand Jury indictment of the cops and the subsequent death threats against the ADA.

Barba had been upset about all of those things, and Benson had discussed them with him. But she could tell that this was something more, something he’d hidden from her, and she wasn’t sure she could let it go. She’d thought they had been through too much to keep secrets from one another.

“DCFS will come to check on us and I can’t even get her to stop crying.”

“Calm down,” Benson said. “When’s the last time you ate—or _slept_?”

He got up and ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head. “How could I let this happen?” he muttered. From the sofa, she watched as he started to pace the living the room.

“Barba.”

“She’s _afraid_ of me, I’m her _father_ and she doesn’t even know—”

“Rafael.”

He turned to look at her. “Liv, I had no right to involve you in this.”

She sighed. “Rafael,” she repeated. “We’re friends. Friends help each—”

“I’ve been a terrible friend. I was ashamed—I didn’t want you to know—Three years ago, I was—”

“Stop,” she said, holding up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about it. At least, not now,” she added, not wanting to hurt his feelings the way her own had been hurt. “We can talk later. For now, you need to sleep. When Rosie wakes up, you need to be calmer than—” She gestured toward him with her hand, “ _this_. She’ll probably be out for a couple of hours, at least. Do you have any sleeping pills?”

“No.”

“Drink a glass of scotch and go to bed. I’ll stay here until both of you wake up—although if your mother shows up—”

“She won’t.”

“It’s going to be fine, Barba,” she said. “We’ll figure it out.”

He stood there, looking disheveled and exhausted, and she knew that _he_ knew—he knew that she was upset, hurt. He knew that she was putting her emotions, her questions, aside only temporarily. He knew that he owed her an admission, and they both knew that it might change their friendship, one way or another, forever.

But for now, she was going to be his friend, and she was going to help him—and Rosie. The little girl needed to know that she was safe with Barba, and he needed to realize that, as well. Benson knew that he would be an excellent father once he’d let go of his shock, his fear, his guilt.

She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, how often she’d thought about it. Whenever he was with Noah—even if they were just in the same room, and Barba glanced toward the boy with a little smile on his lips—she thought about it, wondering what might happen if she threw caution to the wind and admitted that she’d always wanted more than friendship from him.

She gave her head a little shake. _Who’s keeping secrets from who?_ she thought. He was still looking at her. She could tell that he wanted to say something, but he was too tired to find the words. That was probably for the best, because she was in no mood to hear it, whatever it was.

“Go,” she told him. After a few more moments of silence, he did.

 

*       *       *

 

When he woke three hours later, he turned his head and saw that Rosie’s bed was empty, the blankets mussed. He sat up, glancing around the room, but she was nowhere in sight. He felt a flutter of nervousness and did his best to quash it. Benson had said she’d stay until he woke up, and he knew that nothing bad would happen to Rosie while she was around.

Still, it unnerved him that he’d slept through the child’s waking, no matter how sleep-deprived he’d been. How could he hope to be a good parent and keep her safe if he didn’t even wake when she was up and about? He shuffled into the living room, still feeling a little groggy. He could hear Benson’s soft voice, and it calmed him even before he saw her. Her presence meant that everything would be okay—her presence _always_ meant that.

He was yawning as he stepped into the living room, but he stopped—mid-yawn and mid-step. Benson was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, her back against the couch. Noah and Rosie were on the rug in front of her, playing with toys that hadn’t been in the apartment when Barba went to sleep.

He was struck completely dumb by the sight, and the feeling that swirled up, unbidden and unchecked, within him. Oh, Barba had known for a long time that he was hopelessly, helplessly in love with Olivia Benson; it came as no surprise to him. In fact, even though they’d never discussed it—had actually taken pains to avoid discussing it—he was pretty sure she knew. He did his best to hide it when he could, but she could read him like no one else in the world and there were times when he supposed that his stupid face must be plastered with an _I love you so much I can barely breathe_.

No, the rush of love was no surprise, and neither was the mixture of gratitude and relief. What stopped him in his tracks was the absolute _rightness_ of the scene before him, and the tidal wave of longing that crashed over him, crushing him, drowning him. He’d never imagined having a family of his own, not until seeing her with Noah. He’d begun to entertain thoughts that he’d had no business having, then, thoughts of somehow being welcomed into the bond they shared.

And then she’d started dating Tucker. Barba had been hurt, but he’d known that was irrational. She had the right to date whomever she wished, and Barba wanted desperately for her to be happy. What had hurt more than the fact that she was dating someone—a reality for which he’d thought he’d prepared himself—was being blindsided by it. That it was Tucker, someone for whom he’d thought he and Benson shared a dislike, and that she’d never told him—not until confronted.

During her time with Tucker, she’d seemed happy, mostly, and Barba…well, he’d struggled. He wanted her to be happy. But seeing her happy with someone else had made him miserable, and he hated himself for it. He’d been terrified that she would see his misery, that it would somehow leak out of him and infect her. If she’d known how he was feeling, it would have upset her, because she cared about him. She loved him. Not the same way he loved her, but that didn’t make her feelings any less important. They were friends, and his unhappiness would have tainted her relationship with Tucker, and so Barba had withdrawn. She’d barely seemed to notice, and oh, that had hurt.

But it had been a pain that he’d been willing to bear in silence and secrecy in order to protect her happiness. And he’d done his best to find other things, and other people, to occupy his mind and time. He’d failed miserably, of course, and had only ended up hurting more people.

Now, he had a daughter. A child that he’d unknowingly helped create during some of the darkest moments of his life, a child who’d been conceived in Barba’s painful and desperate attempts to forget the woman he loved with all of his heart.

And _who_ was sitting on his floor, playing with that child, comforting her? The only woman with whom he’d ever imagined having a family. And it wasn’t fair—it wasn’t fair to Benson, that he’d called her for help; it wasn’t fair to Rosie, who deserved a better father and to feel her mother’s arms around her again; it wasn’t fair to Carla, who’d deserved far better from him and from life.

He’d never meant for Rosie to exist, but now that he knew about her, he would do anything to protect her. Anything. In spite of his failings, she was the most precious, important thing in the world. She was his child, and the sight of her filled him with both terror and an overwhelming surge of fierce protectiveness. He loved her already, in a way he’d never imagined possible.

Benson looked up at him, and he knew that he must look as though he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. He was having trouble governing his features—and his breaths, and his fidgeting hands, and his thoughts.

“Feeling better?” she asked him. “I hope you don’t mind, I had Lucy bring Noah over to play with Rosie.”

“Of course,” he managed, realizing only belatedly that it wasn’t an appropriate answer. “I mean, fine,” he said. Frowning, he cleared his throat. She was watching him, and now both children were looking up at him, too—Noah, with curiosity, and Rosie with wariness. He supposed his poor daughter must think he’d kidnapped her, and he wished he knew how to reassure her. He sighed. “I _mean_ , hello, Noah, how are you?”

He saw the small smile curve Benson’s lips as she turned her head to look at her son.

“I’m good,” Noah answered. “Guess what, Uncle Rafa?”

“What’s that?” Barba asked, finally convincing his legs to work again. He walked further into the room, and his daughter watched him.

“Rosie knows my name. Go on, Rosie,” he said, tipping his head to look at the girl’s face, his voice high and cajoling. “Tell him my name.”

Rosie ducked her head, and Noah looked disappointed.

Before Barba could think of anything to reassure him, the boy told the little girl, “That’s okay to be shy. You can tell him later. Here, do you want this car? The blue one?”

Barba met Liv’s eyes, and she smiled. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured, and she nodded. He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The few hours of sleep hadn’t done much to improve the bags beneath his eyes, and he was even more in need of a shave, but that would have to wait. He peed quickly, washed his hands, and splashed water onto his face. He ran his wet fingers through his hair—no need to frighten his daughter any more than necessary—and did his best to straighten his wrinkled clothes.

He took a deep breath and let it out. He couldn’t let his daughter see his fear; Benson had been right, his agitation had been making the situation worse for everyone, especially the little girl. If he could stare down murderers, judges, and jurors with equanimity, he could certainly fake enough confidence to face down a toddler.

He walked out of the bathroom with as much swagger as he could manage and lowered himself onto the floor across from Benson. He met her gaze only briefly, knowing that she could see through his bravado but would appreciate the effort, before looking at Rosie. The girl quickly looked away.

“What are we playing, here?” he asked.

Noah pushed himself forward and scrambled over to Barba’s side, so that he was between Barba and Rosie, and said, “Look at this, Uncle Rafa, can you help put this here? This is the head, but it doesn’t fit straight, see?”

Barba examined the abstract Lego creation for a moment. “I think you need—see that little piece over by Rosie’s foot? Grab that for me, buddy, thanks. If we put this here, this is—”

“His neck?” Noah suggested.

Barba chuckled. “Sure,” he said. He could kind of see it, now. “Then this’ll fit, see?”

“You fixed it, thanks, Uncle Rafa! Look, Rosie,” Noah said, holding the makeshift, multi-colored, Picasso-esque Lego person up for her examination. “Here, you can have this one,” he said, pushing it gently into her tiny hands. “I’m gonna make another.”

As Noah started pulling blocks together into a pile before himself, Barba looked at his daughter and met her green eyes. Her dark hair was a mess of tangles around her pale face, and he knew he would have to do something about that—he would have to figure out _how_ to do something about that. There were so many things that he needed to learn, but the first—the most important thing—he had to do was earn her trust. No matter how long it took, he would make sure that she knew he was going to be there for her, from this moment until the end of his life.

Rather than adding to his anxiety, this thought actually calmed him. He’d never expected to be a father, and he had no idea what he was doing, but he _did_ know, looking at her, that he would do anything and everything in his power, for as long as he was breathing, to keep her safe and happy. He always functioned better when he had a goal, a purpose.

She looked away, lowering her head to watch Noah clicking blocks together, and Barba pulled in a breath through his nose. He looked up at Benson, unashamed of the tears gleaming in his eyes, and saw that she could read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d spelled them out for her.

He gave his head a little shake, and she smiled.

“I have a few errands to run,” she said, quietly. “Then I thought we could go to the P-A-R-K before supper.”

“I know what that spells,” Noah piped in without looking up from his blocks.

Barba ruffled his hair. “Of course you do, you little genius,” he said with a smile. Then he returned his gaze to Benson’s, and the question in his eyes was obvious: _You’re leaving your son here? With me?_

Benson said, with a reassuring smile, “You’ll be fine. I won’t be long. Be good and listen to Uncle Rafa, alright, Noah?” She pushed herself to her feet.

“Okay,” the boy said, glancing up, his nose wrinkled.

“He’s always good,” Barba said, winking at the boy and earning a giggle.

“I’m glad you think so,” Benson answered with a laugh. “I’ll call you for the next no-ice-cream-before-dinner meltdown.” She widened her eyes at her son, and Noah giggled again, shrugging.

 _Call me_ , Barba thought, but as he looked up at Benson, he was afraid that she might read that, too, in his eyes, and he dropped his gaze.

“I’ll be back soon,” she murmured, and then she’d grabbed her jacket from the chair, and gun from the top of his shelf, and was heading out the door.

Barba looked at Rosie as the little girl watched Benson leave with watery green eyes. “Don’t worry, Rosie, Aunt Livvie will be back soon. Hey, honey, can you hand me that car right there? It looks like the wheel’s crooked, let me see if I can fix that.” He waited as the girl looked at the car, waited to see if she would pick it up and hand it to him or—more likely—burst into tears.

“Yeah, that one doesn’t drive good, does it, Rosie?” Noah said. “Uncle Rafa—I mean, your dad, he can fix it I bet, he’s real smart, Mom says so.”

Barba didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He and Noah had always gotten along, in spite of his own initial discomfort around the boy; he knew that Noah liked him, and he was good at making the kid laugh. He couldn’t help wondering, however, if Noah’s mother had coached him or if he’d decided to play Uncle Rafa-Cheerleader on his own. Either way, Barba was deeply touched, and he ruffled the boy’s hair again.

“Thanks, _mijo_ ,” he muttered. He didn’t realize he’d said it until both kids looked up at him, and he knew that both of them knew what the word meant. Rosie’s eyes were alert and watchful. She’d picked up the broken car, and was holding it in one tiny fist. After a moment’s thought, she stretched out her stubby arm, offering it to him. Barba took it with a smile. “Thank you, _mija_ ,” he said.

 

*       *      *

 

Benson didn’t fancy herself a coward, but the excuse of errands had been just that—an excuse. She hadn’t expected to leave them alone, certainly not so quickly after Barba emerged from his nap, but seeing him with Noah, with Rosie…She’d needed to get out, to get some air, to clear her head. She’d been afraid that Barba, who was always far too observant, would see her traitorous thoughts shining in her eyes.

Seeing him with Noah _always_ made her emotional, and made her imagine things she had no business imagining. But this—finding out that he had a child, that he was a _father_ —well, she didn’t know how to feel about it, how to process it. She was jealous, and she hated that. How many times had she seen Tucker playing with Noah and wished Barba were there, instead? Those weren’t thoughts that she liked to acknowledge, even to herself, but they’d been there, far too frequently. How many times had she dreamed of Barba being a father to Noah?

But she’d known that Barba had always been resistant to the very idea of fatherhood, knew that he’d long ago convinced himself that his life was destined to follow a different path. It was one of the main reasons she’d worked so hard, all these years, to deny her feelings, to look for comfort and love elsewhere, why she’d denied herself what she really wanted—who she really wanted. She’d always believed that Barba would be a wonderful father, and seeing him learn and grow with Noah had only affirmed her faith. But she’d respected his choices, and she never would’ve tried to force her life onto him no matter how much she wanted to pull him into her family.

So she was jealous that he’d brought a child into the world with someone else, even though he hadn’t done it intentionally, even though he hadn’t even known. She was jealous that he’d spent time in another’s bed, even though she’d been sleeping with Tucker at the same time. She was jealous that Rosie would have Barba as a father and Noah would not, and that was the worst one of all, the most damning and painful to admit to herself.

She stood outside Barba’s apartment, leaning against the closed door, cursing herself for falling so deeply and hopelessly in love with a man she could never have. She’d heard him, as she’d slipped out of the apartment, telling his daughter that _Aunt Livvie will be back soon_ , and she vowed that, no matter what, she would always be there for both of them. She would always be Aunt Livvie, just as Barba would always be Uncle Rafa, and Benson promised herself that it would be enough. It would _have_ to be enough, because she loved him too much, she valued his friendship too much, to let him slip away. She could and would control her feelings.

She straightened and took a deep breath. She glanced up and down the hallway, glad that no one had witnessed her teetering on the edge of a breakdown. She shook her head, laughing at herself, but the sound held little humor, and she strode away from his door before she could lose her resolve.

 

*       *      *

 

Noah and Rosie were in the sandbox with a yellow dump truck and a red, plastic shovel that Rosie was using to fill the back of the truck with sand. Barba and Benson were sitting on a bench, watching them.

The adults had said very little to each other all afternoon, each speaking mostly to the kids. Now, as they sat beside each other, watching their children playing—laughing—together, the silence seemed to be building into something tangible, a wall that they both knew needed to be torn down before it could grow impenetrable.

“Thank you, Liv,” Barba said, quietly.

Gathering her courage, she reached out and covered his hand with hers on his thigh. She’d touched him before, of course, but now, while she’d barely gotten her emotions under control, she knew that the physical contact could be dangerous.

“She’s a smart kid, Rafa,” she said. “She’s going to be fine, and so are you. Is there…a funeral service for Carla?”

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t know if…Should I take her? Is she too young, or would I be depriving her—I don’t know. Carla didn’t have any family left, and—”

“Her brother? Your friend from school?”

He shook his head, frowning, looking down at their hands on his thigh. “He died while I was at Harvard. She’ll have friends there, but will seeing them make it easier or harder for Rosie? Seeing her mother’s picture? I really don’t know.”

“You can trust your instincts,” she said, and it was lost on neither of them that he’d once said those words to her when she’d been doubting her abilities as a mother. He dragged his gaze up to hers, and she added, “Do you want me to come with you?” She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to see pictures of the woman with whom Barba’d had a child. She’d never met the woman, but she was sure that Carla had deserved a far better life than the hand she’d been dealt.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” he murmured, searching her face, emotion shining in his eyes.

“You didn’t ask,” she said. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow. Liv—”

She shook her head and patted his hand. “We should head back and get something to eat. What did your mother say?” she asked, pulling her hand back with regret.

“She cursed me out for about five minutes, mostly in Spanish, for calling you, but secretly I’m sure she’s relieved. She’s always hoped I—” He stopped, though, his small smile fading. He turned his head toward the kids. “Will you have dinner with us?” he asked, quietly, without looking at her.

“Of course,” she answered. “I’ll stay until she’s asleep, if you want.”

 _Stay forever_ , he thought. He glanced sideways at her, then back at the sandbox. “Come, _mi niños_ ,” he said. “Time to eat—who’s hungry?” he asked as Noah stood and brushed sand from his pants.

“Rosie’s hungry,” the boy answered, looking down at her.

She reached up and tugged on his sleeve, saying quietly, “No-ah.” He bent down and she said something into his ear.

Noah straightened and said, “She wants way-voes, whatever that is,” he said with a shrug. He reached down and helped her up out of the sand.

“My mother made her scrambled eggs,” Barba told Benson, quietly. “It was one of the few things she was interested in eating.” Louder, he added, “Eggs for supper it is, then. How’s that sound, Noah?”

The boy, now cradling the dump truck in his arms, considered. “Can we have pizza?” he asked. He looked down at Rosie, uncertainly. “Can you eat pizza?” he asked, his forehead creased in puzzlement. “Well…I like eggs,” he said, and both adults laughed.

They glanced at each other as they stood, their arms brushing, and Barba offered a small smile. “ _Te gustan los huevos_ , Lieutenant Benson?” he asked, quietly.

“Do you know how to cook?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’m a conundrum, yeah? But a man can’t subsist on takeout alone.”

“So you weren’t expecting me to cook?”

Now he was grinning. “I’m a progressive, Olivia,” he said.

She laughed. “Oh, I know,” she answered.

“And I have no desire to be shot,” he added, and she laughed again. “How _ever_ …I do believe I’m out of eggs.”

“I guarantee you are,” she agreed. “I checked your refrigerator—and your cupboards. Mother Hubbard would—well, she wouldn’t be proud, I suppose, but she’d understand.”

He made a face. “That’s a horrible reference, Liv,” he said. “You know the dog dies in the second stanza?”

“Seriously?” she asked, thinking about it, trying to remember if she knew the rest of the rhyme.

He grinned again. “Don’t worry, by the end of the eighth, he’s reading the news.”

She stared at him. “I don’t know if you’re joking.”

Now, he laughed. “I’m not,” he assured her. “Trust me, that dog had quite a day. He even rode a goat. Ready?” he asked the kids. Rosie was cradling the red shovel in her arms like a baby, and Barba made a mental note to bring her little doll the next time they left the house. “Time to hold hands,” he told his daughter. She immediately looked at Noah, whose arms were around the dump truck. “Here, I’ll carry that,” he told the boy, taking the truck in one hand.

“Can you give me a piggy-back, Uncle Rafa?” Noah asked.

“Noah, honey, I don’t think—” Benson started, but Barba interrupted.

“I can do that, I’m tougher than I look,” he said, and she laughed. He handed her the dump truck and bent down, helping Noah hop onto his back. Once the boy had hold of his neck, Barba straightened and let go of one leg, reaching for the truck.

“I’ve got it,” Benson said, clearly amused. She looked at Rosie, who was eyeing Noah on Barba’s back. “I’ll dig Noah’s old stroller out for you,” she told Barba.

The little girl lifted her arms, shovel in one fist, and said, uncertainly, “Up?”

Barba laughed. “Here,” he said, holding out a hand, and Benson handed him the truck. She picked the girl up, holding her in the crook of one arm, and then took the truck back.

“He’s heavier than she is,” she said, when Barba seemed about to object.

Barba took hold of Noah’s legs and hoisted him a little higher. “I won’t drop your kid if you don’t drop mine,” he joked.

She smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes that he hated. He couldn’t be sure of the reason, but he knew he was the cause. He’d give anything to fix it; he didn’t think he could. “It’s gonna be even more fun once we stop for eggs and milk,” she said, and then the sadness was gone, hidden away.

He wished he could believe it hadn’t been there. He matched her smile, and said, “I like a challenge.”

 

*       *      *

 

“She wanted you to tuck her in, but she didn’t have a complete meltdown,” Barba said. “So, that’s progress.”

“Is she sleeping?” Benson asked. She was on the sofa. Noah was lying with his head in her lap. He wasn’t asleep, but he was close.

“Yes,” Barba answered, watching her stroking the boy’s curls. “Stay,” he said, suddenly. Then—because he hadn’t meant to say it like that, somewhere between a command and a plea, and because it was too close to what he wanted to say— _stay forever, please_ —he added quickly, “I mean, both of you can stay, you can take my bed, it’s late, there’s no sense—” He forced himself to stop and take a breath. “I don’t—I appreciate all your help.”

“Do you mind if Lucy watches Noah here, tomorrow? During the service?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he answered, his voice quiet. “In fact…do you think she could watch Rosie, too? I’ve decided…not to take her. Unless you think I should?”

“You’re right that it’d probably upset her, confuse her,” she said. “Her mother’s friends will probably want to see her, though.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m going to give them all my number so if they want to see her, we can arrange to meet up. It’ll be good for her to see some familiar faces.”

They regarded each other in silence before she asked, hesitantly, “Do you still want me to go with you?”

“Yes,” he said, before he could stop himself. He winced. “I mean—”

“If you don’t want to be alone,” she said.

“I don’t,” he muttered.

“Okay, then,” she answered.

 

*       *      *

 

“That was rough,” he admitted, shaking his head, as they walked.

“Just because you haven’t seen her in a few years doesn’t mean…you didn’t care about her, that she wasn’t important to you,” Benson answered quietly. “Even if she weren’t Rosie’s mother, you still…shared something…” She trailed off, swallowing; she really didn’t want to talk about this, and she knew that he didn’t, either. She’d felt his emotion during the service, though—and afterward, as he’d greeted her friends and answered questions about his daughter and handed out business cards with his personal cell number written on the backs.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, glancing at her. “I know it’s not…It just meant a lot having you there.”

“Of course,” she answered, taking his arm in hers.

She thought about that morning—waking up with her son in the bed with her, smelling the breakfast and coffee that Barba had ready and waiting—and how nice it had felt to shuffle out of the bedroom to greet him. She’d spent an inordinate amount of time in his bed the night before, unable to fall asleep, plagued by the scent of him that lingered on the pillow and sheets, sheets that she’d refused to let him change.

Seeing him first thing in the morning, though—freshly shaven, in jeans and a crisp, clean shirt—had made the sleepless night worth it. She’d allowed herself to pretend, for a little while, that it was more than just camping out to help a friend. Getting Noah and Rosie up and dressed for the day, side by side with Barba, had felt natural and right. Sitting at the small kitchen table with the kids, watching them eat scrambled eggs—again—had filled her with longing.

She didn’t want it to end, and she’d taken steps to ensure the fantasy could last just a little bit longer. She hadn’t told him, yet, and wasn’t sure how he would react. She’d known that the funeral service would upset him, even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it.

She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous, now, to tell him what she’d planned. It wasn’t as though she had any ulterior motives, beyond wanting to spend more time with him and Rosie. The worst he could do was refuse her invitation.

“I know you have the rest of the week off, still,” she started, trying to work up her nerve.

“Yeah, I just need to spend as much time with her as I can, I’m afraid when I go back to work she’ll think…you know…Liv, she took my hand this morning, to show me what Noah was doing. It was just a few seconds, but…before you came over I couldn’t even look at her without her screaming. Before you and Noah. He’s great with her.”

“He is,” she agreed. “But so are you. You’re right to spend as much time as…Look, I was thinking, it might be a good idea for you to get out of the city for a few days. Someplace quiet, to sort of…decompress. Get away from worries about work, the noise of the city, and just…relax and get to know each other.”

He looked at her, smiling. “That sounds nice,” he said, but there was something—sadness, or wistfulness—in his eyes.

She had to rush ahead. “I called this morning and rented a cabin, it’s only a few hours out of the city. Noah and I have stayed up there before, it’s beautiful, especially this time of year.”

He stopped walking and turned to face her. She looked at him, feeling wary, afraid of what he might see as he searched her expression. “You rented us a cabin?” he asked, his brow slightly wrinkled.

 _Us,_ she thought. He didn’t realize, yet, because she hadn’t made herself clear. She had to push on. “Yes, _us_ ,” she clarified. “All four of us. If you don’t want—If you’d rather just you and Rosie—”

“Don’t you have to work?” he asked. His tone was one of caution, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d blindsided him with this whole idea. She couldn’t allow herself to back down, though.

“I put in for the rest of the week off,” she said. She put a hand on his arm. “I’m not trying to force myself into—You’re welcome to use the cabin for just the two of you, but if you want some company, Noah and I—”

“Yes,” he said, and she felt a flush of relief that she didn’t want to examine too closely.

“It has three bedrooms,” she said, just to avoid any misconceptions. “We’ll need to get groceries and pack. We can be there—”

“Olivia,” he said, and she hesitated, looking at him. “I—” He stopped, though. She saw him swallow, saw several emotions flit across his features, saw the lines of his face deepen as he searched her gaze. She loved him; she wanted to ease the worry from his eyes. As he regarded her, his expression softened, and finally, a small smile touched his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Let’s get ready to go,” she said. She held her arm out, again, and he took it without hesitation. “I think you’ll like the place, and Noah will be excited to show you and Rosie around.”

 

*       *      *

 

 “Are they both sleeping?” she asked, looking up from the book she was reading. Rosie had slept for most of the drive up, but they’d had a busy evening of hiking and exploring until it had grown too dark to see where they were going. Rosie had been laughing and running after Noah, looking for all the world like a happy and carefree toddler, and it had done Barba’s heart—and Benson’s—good to see it.

Both kids had been a little cranky after a late supper, but after a few bedtime stories, Barba had managed to get them to sleep without any catastrophes.

“Yes,” he said. He looked tired but, she thought, relieved. He was starting to believe he might be able to handle fatherhood, and she was glad. She didn’t like the air of desperation that had been clinging to him any more than he liked the air of grief around his daughter.

She took her glasses off and set them on top of the book on the coffee table. “Good,” she said. “They had a long day, they’re probably exhausted. You look like you should go to bed, too.”

He stood there, in the middle of the room, staring at her, and she felt a sudden flutter in her stomach. It wasn’t nervousness, exactly—at least, not a bad nervousness. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” he said, quietly.

She smiled and waved a hand to cover her sudden flush of desire. “Friends help each other out, Rafael,” she said. “There’s no need—”

“It’s more than that,” he interrupted. “I don’t mean just…these two days. I mean everything. I wouldn’t—” He stopped, looking away. He seemed suddenly agitated, and he ran a hand over his face. “Sorry, you’re right, I should get some sleep,” he said. His gaze cut back to hers. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Liv.”

“I know,” she said.

“Do you?” he asked, and her breath caught at the look on his face. He wasn’t just talking about Rosie, she realized. He studied her face for a few moments, and she saw his shoulders slump a little. Whatever he wanted to say, he wasn’t going to—he was going to retreat.

“Tell me,” she said, before he could shut her out.

He gave his head a little shake and said, “I have no right—” He broke off, and she saw his jaw clench. She saw pain in the lines of his face, and she got to her feet, wanting to comfort him.

“Talk to me,” she said. She took a step toward him, but he turned and started to pace. She stopped, watching him. “Two, three years ago,” she said. “Whatever was bothering you, whatever dark place you were in—why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you talk to me? I didn’t think we kept secrets—”

“You were with Tucker,” he said, without looking at her as he paced the floor like a caged animal.

She knew she’d been a little preoccupied while she and Tucker were together; spending time with him and Noah had taken away from socializing off the clock with her colleagues.

She didn’t like the insinuation that she would’ve been unavailable to help him, or any of her friends, through a difficult time, though. “I was still your friend,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “If something was bothering you—”

He stopped, looked at her, and said, quietly, “You were with Tucker.”

She closed her mouth. He lifted his eyebrows, pressing his lips together.

Benson’s heart sped up, and it suddenly felt as though all of the air had been sucked from the room. She stared at him, stunned, as his meaning sank in. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked in a whisper.

He tipped his head, his expression somewhere between a grimace and a smile, and said, “Would it have made a difference?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure how to answer that. She considered the question— _would_ it have changed things? She’d been happy, or at least content, with Tucker, for a while. He’d been there when she needed him. But Barba had been there, too, even before Tucker. The truth was, she’d pushed Barba away when she starting seeing Tucker. Why? She didn’t want to be unfair to Tucker, but she knew that she owed it to herself to be honest. There had always been something between her and Barba, some spark that was more than just friendship, and it had always scared her. She’d come to rely on him, professionally, and she had a long history of losing important professional relationships. She’d come to rely on him as a friend, and she had precious few of those. She’d been terrified to rely on him for anything more.

“I know,” he said, shaking his head. “I _know_. I have no right to ask. I’m the one who screwed up. I was selfish, and I went to Carla and then I hurt her—Oh, I didn’t mean to, I really, really didn’t, and I never lied to her, but I was so wrapped up in my own—” He stopped and pulled a breath through his nose. “I can’t even bring myself to regret it, either, because now there’s a little girl in there who wouldn’t—”

He stopped again, shaking his head. “I’m all she has but she deserves better. How am I supposed to tell her that I—that I used her mother because I was upset that my best friend was sleeping with someone else? That she was almost two before I knew she existed and that I’d barely even thought of her mother in that time because all I wanted was… _you_? Or that the first thing I thought when I found out was what would you think of me? Or that the only person I’d _ever_ imagined having a family with was you? That I wasn’t even sure I really understood what a family _was_ until I saw you with Noah and Rosie and I felt like…the world wasn’t such an awful place, after all.

“But it’s not real,” he said, spreading his arms. “That family’s an illusion and…it’s not mine to offer her. And you and me, we’ve seen the worst parts of the world. Yet somehow, you’ve become the mother that Noah deserves, the mother that _you_ deserved and didn’t get. And God help me, Liv, I can’t stop. I’ve tried. I can’t stop wanting you. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t say it but I can’t _not_ say it because I’ve never lied to you and keeping this a secret feels like lying. You deserve to know and I promise—I _swear_ that I’ll never mention it again.”

“Yes,” she said, and the word hung in the air between them as they stared at each other. She saw him swallow. Her own heart was thudding in her chest. He was right: not admitting it out loud had begun to feel like lying, and she couldn’t blame him for shutting her out when she’d done the same thing to him. “Yes, it…would’ve made a difference,” she said. “But maybe…we just weren’t ready. It isn’t fair, Rafael, not to Carla, not to Ed, not to Rosie and Noah—and not to us, either.

“But I know you, I know the man you are, and you have to forgive yourself. That little girl will most likely forget her mother, and that’s a terrible thing. But you’ll be there to remind her, to tell her stories about when you were kids together, to tell her all the good things you know about Carla. You’ll be there—you’re _here_. You love her already, but she just needs time. To know you, to trust you, and soon you’ll be everything to her, her protection against the world. That’s who you are. It’s who you’ve always been. It’s why I fell in love with you in the first place, it’s why I wouldn’t risk our friendship for anything, it’s why I know that you’ll be the best father any kid could hope for. It’s why I…hated myself for thinking about you when I watched Ed playing with Noah,” she said, tears burning her eyes and nose. “It’s why I couldn’t—” Her voice cracked and she broke off, giving her head a little shake.

Barba crossed to her quickly, unable to bear the tears in her eyes, the pain in her expression. He took her in his arms, and she put her forehead against his shoulder, hugging him, breathing in his scent, letting his warmth surround her. She’d wanted him for so long that her body immediately reacted to his heat, his touch, and desire flared in her belly. She felt his hand at the back of her head, his fingers in her hair.

“ _Shh_ ,” he breathed near her ear. “Please don’t cry, Liv. Please, honey. I’m sorry.”

In spite of herself, she laughed—a small sound—against his shoulder. “You’re sorry that I want you?” she muttered.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Because you deserve better.”

“You deserve better than me,” she said.

“There isn’t any—” He stopped when she pulled her head back to look at him.

“See how that feels?” she asked. “Stop it.”

He regarded her for a moment before offering a small smile. Her stomach and heart both fluttered in response. He searched her face. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, softly, his lips barely moving.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

“I love you so much that I can barely breathe, and I want you so badly that it might kill me.”

She smiled. “That’s a big thought,” she said, quietly, her eyes going to his mouth as he bit his lip.

“I don’t just mean physically—although, _God_ , I do,” he breathed, as their gazes locked. “I need you in my life, Olivia, however I can have you, but I _want_ everything. You said you were in love with me.”

“Oh, so you _did_ hear that,” she said with a smile.

“You said you weren’t ready,” he continued, drawing back a little to better see her expression, his eyes searching her face. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it, whether it’s to wait or—”

“Kiss me,” she said. Their gazes met and held, again, and neither of them could breathe. For several moments, the silence stretched between them, and they knew—they each knew that nothing would ever be the same. They’d wanted this moment for so long, they’d imagined it, dreamed of it, thought of it while in the arms of others; they’d denied themselves and denied each other, and now, standing with their arms loosely circled around one another, declarations of love still hanging in the air, they could feel the anticipation building, crackling like electricity between them, and they waited, letting the pressure build, each knowing how important the moment was.

They moved at the same time, and at first the kiss was soft and questioning as they—finally—got their first tastes of each other. And then the dams broke, and all of their denied desires flared into life, consuming them, taking over their senses. Barba turned her toward the wall, steering her backward as they kissed, needing something against which to brace.

Her back met the wall, and he leaned into her, one hand at her waist and the other in her hair. Their bodies were pressed together, chest to chest, but he’d staggered their feet so that his thigh was between hers, and she knew why—she could feel his desire straining against her leg. While she appreciated his restraint, she wasn’t interested in moving slowly, not now—not this time. She took hold of his waist and shifted her feet, and the bulge of his erection settled into place between her legs.

He groaned into her mouth, pressing closer, but they couldn’t get close enough; their hands were all over each other, now, their bodies frantic for more contact, but there were too many layers of clothing. She slid her hands under his shirt and spread her fingers over his stomach, feeling his muscles quiver at her touch, and she wanted to feel all of him, every inch of him.

She pushed him back and turned him, shoving him against the wall, her hands exploring beneath his shirt as she tried, desperately, futilely, to get somehow closer to his body.

He broke away from her mouth, panting, tipping his head back against the wall. “Liv,” he said, his voice thick. “God, I want to do this right—”

“Right can wait,” she said, meeting his heavy gaze. “I’m tired of waiting—I want you _now_.”

He made a sound in his throat, and then he was kissing her again, his tongue claiming her mouth, his hands hot at her back, and they were moving toward the bedroom—one of them, she didn’t know or care which—and through the doorway into the darkness. He reached out a hand and fumbled the door closed, and then it was even darker, and there was nothing in the world but them. They could hear each other struggling to breathe, they could hear their hearts pounding in their chests, they could feel their swirl of combined heat, they could taste each other, smell each other.

She heard him lock the door in the darkness and felt a thrill of anticipation. Even though she could feel him, she could scarcely believe that this was finally happening. She’d wanted him for so long, she’d tried for so long to accept that it would never happen—

He flipped on the light, and she blinked, startled, pulling back to look at him. Her hands were still inside his shirt. She could feel his desire pressed against her, and she could see it in his eyes and the creases of his face, and she wanted him as she’d never wanted anyone in her life.

“I want to make something clear,” he said, and she could hear the arousal in his low voice, too. “I’ve loved you since I met you, and nothing will _ever_ change that.”

Her brain was so consumed by desire that it took her a moment to process his words. “Are you telling me I don’t have to…put out to make you like me?” she asked, amused in spite of herself.

His lips curved into a crooked smile. “Something like that.”

She leaned closer, and whispered, “Just because you can’t feel my arousal against _your_ leg doesn’t mean—”

He slanted his mouth over hers to shut her up, and a few seconds later, they were laughing, breathlessly, as they stumbled toward the bed.

“The light,” she gasped when she felt his hands tugging her shirt up.

“I want to see you,” he murmured, nuzzling her throat, and she gasped again, holding handfuls of his shirt to steady herself. His mouth was hot and wet against the sensitive skin beneath her jaw, and she tipped her head back, her eyes closing, her hands somehow finding their way to his hair as she felt the mattress at the backs of her knees. “May I?” he asked.

She had no idea what he was asking for, so she just breathed, “ _Yes_.” He pulled her shirt up and over her head, and she lifted her arms to help, shivering as the cool air caressed her overheated skin. “Please,” she said, and she didn’t know what _she_ was asking for, either, but he seemed to know—he drew his own shirt up and off in a quick, fluid motion, and that was exactly what she’d wanted, to feel his hot chest and stomach against hers. She snaked her hand into his hair, tugging his head up so she could kiss him, and she sank back onto the bedspread, pulling him down with her.

His body covered hers, hot and heavy, pushing her into the soft mattress. Then he shifted, and suddenly his mouth was no longer on hers—her hands were in his hair as his tongue found her nipple through the fabric of her bra, and she arched her back, holding onto his head. With a quick flick of his fingers, he freed her breast from the damp cup and pulled her bare nipple into his mouth, and she made a strangled sound that resembled his name. She felt him smiling against her skin, and she looked down, her eyes cloudy with desire, to find his green eyes watching her as he sucked.

She pulled his hair, unable to speak, and he shifted upward, covering her mouth as his erection once more nestled itself between her legs. She arched against him, again, needing to feel all of him. He was moving too slowly, and damn his chivalry—she didn’t want foreplay, she wanted _him_ , but he’d robbed her of her ability to form a coherent sentence.

“Please,” she said, again, because that’s all she could manage.

“Tell me what you want,” he said against her lips, and she laughed—a choked, desperate sound that made him smile.

“I can’t,” she gasped, and he lifted his head up, grinning down at her. She laughed again, shaking her head on the bedspread. “ _You_ ,” she said. “Stop—”

Looking down at her, he arched an eyebrow. Still smiling, he said, “ _Stop_?”

She made a sound of frustration. “Stop _stalling_ ,” she told him.

“I’m not stalling, I’m _savoring_ ,” he answered with a smirk.

“Savor later,” she muttered, sliding her hand between them to flatten her palm against his erection. That wiped the smirk from his face, and she watched his eyelids droop as he shifted against her hand. She saw his throat bob as he swallowed, and she knew that they were equals—she had as much power over him as he had over her, and they were both near their breaking points.

He bent his head, but this time, his lips were gentle against hers while she fumbled blindly for the button of his jeans. His breath fanned her lips, and his hand was at her cheek. He searched her face as she managed to undo his fly. She unsnapped her own and tried to push her pants down, but his body was covering hers, and she could barely move.

“I swear to God, Barba, if you’re not inside of me in about thirty seconds, I’ll finish without you and you can go take a shower,” she said through her teeth, startling him into a laugh. In spite of her frustration, she smiled up at him—it was an empty threat, and they both knew it. “Help me,” she said, pushing at his hips.

He levered himself up, and then she was alone on the bed. She watched as he quickly stripped out of his jeans and boxers, and she couldn’t breathe. She forced her gaze up to his and saw the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. She realized that she was just lying there, staring at him, and she gave herself a mental shake, pushing her own trousers and underwear over her hips and down her legs while he watched. She could feel the weight of his gaze, sliding over every inch of her, and she shivered beneath the touchless caress.

She kicked her pants onto the floor and unhooked her bra, slipping it off and tossing that aside, as well. She pushed herself up the bed and looked at him, waiting.

His lips were parted, his gaze hooded, his hands fisted at his sides.

She looked at his erection, then back at his face. “Are you gonna do something about that?” she asked, and he let out a breath.

“I love you,” he said. Then, because that didn’t seem enough, “ _Te amo_. _Siempre te amaré_ , Liv. I love you forever.”

She held out a hand, imploring him to join her, and he moved forward, unable to resist her silent plea. He crawled over her, covering her naked body with his, and finally— _finally_ —there was nothing between them, nothing in her way. She could feel him, all of him, his skin against hers. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, holding his stare.

“I love you, too,” she said. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Rafael.”

He kissed her, softly. The kiss was restrained, but she could feel the tension vibrating through every inch of his body. He slid his hand up her thigh, watching her face, and she shivered beneath him. She shifted, moving her leg to give him better access, and she swallowed her gasp when his fingers found her wetness. She was more than ready, and had been for what felt like forever, but he slid his fingers into her, anyway, and she arched against his hand, her eyes closing.

“Do you want me to use—”

“No,” she said, her voice husky and breathless. “I want to feel _you_.” There was no risk of pregnancy, and she trusted him implicitly—and, more than that, she didn’t want anything between them. “I want you to come inside me,” she murmured, and those were words that she’d never said in her life—words that she’d never imagined she _would_ say in her life.

He plunged his tongue into her mouth and swallowed her groan as he buried his fingers inside of her. She bent her knee, arching her back and lifting her hips; she seemed to have no control over her body. Every part of her was straining toward him.

Then his hand was gone, and she could feel him positioning himself, could feel the tip of his erection pressing against her, and she wanted to call out but couldn’t because he had complete ownership of her mouth. He moved slowly, so slowly that she wanted to strangle him, and all she could do was clutch at his sweaty skin as he slid into her, stretching her, filling her.

She sighed into his mouth, feeling fuller and more complete than ever in her life. She wanted to be joined with him, a part of him, forever. He’d stopped, giving them both time to appreciate the moment, but they couldn’t stay still for long; their bodies were tired of waiting, desperate for release, and he turned his head, breaking the kiss, dropping his forehead against her shoulder as he tried to breathe.

She hooked a leg around his hips, trying to pull him impossibly closer, deeper, and he started to move. He was trying to go slowly, and she appreciated the effort, but she knew it was a futile attempt. By the time he sank into her the second time, both of their bodies were trembling, and he lifted his head to look at her face.

He withdrew almost all the way, and she nodded against the pillow, ready, holding his stare. He took a breath and plunged into her, biting back his groan, and then they were both moving as she met his thrusts with her own. Their bodies were slick with sweat, but they managed to cling to each other with slippery fingers.

His head dropped to her shoulder, again, and she could smell his damp hair.

She had never felt anything like the pressure that was building within her. His lips grazed her shoulder, and he breathed her name against her skin, and she knew that she wasn’t alone in her feelings. His hips were moving frantically, faster and without rhythm, and he was trying desperately to hold back—she could sense it, could feel him beginning to lose what control he had—and she could feel herself beginning to tighten around him.

“Come for me, Liv,” he murmured against her shoulder, and she was—she could feel herself climbing up, up, and she knew that she would shatter into a million pieces; she held onto him, knowing he would help her gather those million pieces back together. She bucked against him, and he moved his head, slanting his mouth over hers to swallow her cry.

As the world splintered around her, as her body was rocked by pleasure the likes of which she’d never imagined, he thrust into her and stilled, kissing her as she felt him spill his seed inside her. She could feel him quivering against the length of her body, and inside of her, and every part of her tightened around him—her leg, her arms, her mouth—as she pulled him deeper and closer.

He broke away from her kiss, panting as he collapsed onto her, trembling. She let her leg slide back to the bed; her muscles felt rubbery and weak, and for long moments, neither of them seemed able to move. Then he lifted his head to look at her, and she put a shaky hand against his cheek. She loved him more than she’d known was possible. Their bodies were fused together, their sweaty limbs tangled, and she didn’t want him to ever withdraw.

He was afraid he was crushing her, though, and he shifted. He pressed his lips against hers, gently, as he pulled himself out of her, and she sighed. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, and she settled against his chest, putting one leg over his, needing to keep as much contact as possible. She was nestled into the curve of his arm, and she shivered in pleasure as his finger traced lazy patterns on her skin.

She pressed her palm against his chest, relishing the tickle of springy hair and the thud of his heart. He brushed her hair from her forehead and she lifted her face, wordlessly, to accept his kiss. She would never tire of kissing him.

“I promise to have more restraint next time,” he murmured, his lips curving into a sheepish smile as they looked at each other.

She gave a breathless laugh. “I think you managed just enough,” she assured him, and his smile widened.

“ _Te amo_ ,” he said.

She laughed again. “I know, you don’t have to keep saying it,” she said, even though she would never tire of that, either. For so long, she’d wanted nothing more than to hear those words on his lips.

“I’ve wanted to say it for so long, I don’t think I can stop,” he admitted.

“I love you, too,” she said, settling her cheek against his chest. Their heartrates and breaths were finally returning to normal. The air was cool against their wet skin, but they were drawing enough heat from each other. “And I don’t want you to stop,” she added, touching her lips to his skin and relishing the small shiver that passed through him.

“There’s something I wanted to say to you last night,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ve wanted to say it for a long time, actually,” he said. “Stay with me, forever? Let me do my best to make you happy and I promise to never stop trying. I know you don’t need me, but I need you, I feel anchorless when we’re not together.”

“I feel the same way,” she admitted, and she felt his breath catch in his chest. “Since we met, you’re the one person I’ve always turned to, always trusted no matter what. I’ve loved you for so long, I don’t remember how I survived without you in my life.”

“Help me raise my daughter, and I’ll help you raise your son, and we can be…”

“Family?” she suggested, smiling against his chest.

“Everything,” he breathed. “ _Te amaré por siempre_.”

“If you’re going to keep telling me you love me in Spanish, you’d better be ready to go again,” she said, sliding her hand over his stomach.

He chuckled. “Give me five minutes, _mi amor_ ,” he said. She slid her hand lower. He was already growing hard, again. He groaned. “Two minutes,” he amended.

She wrapped her fingers around him, her touch light. “Is that your final offer?” she asked.

“Oh, God,” he said. Then: “Alright,” he growled, “you asked for it.” He pushed her back against the mattress, rolling over her, and she laughed, squirming as he pinned her wrists above her head. He smiled down at her. “But you’re gonna be sorry,” he warned, his voice soft. “This time, it’s going to take _hours_. You’re just gonna be this big ol’ rubbery mess. By the time I’m finished—”

“Yeah, promises, promises,” she interrupted. “Put your money where your mouth is, Counsellor.”

He grinned at her. “You’d better hold on, Liv, it’ll be a long—”

“If you say ride, I swear,” she warned.

“I was going to say night, but now that you mention it…”

She laughed, but it was cut short when he covered her mouth with his.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Benson knocked, then let herself, and Noah, inside, knowing that Barba had left the door unlocked for them.

“Got it, honey?” she asked Noah, who was fumbling with the large package in his arms.

“Yes,” he answered.

“No, Papa!” they heard from the direction of the bedroom.

“Rosa Lucia Barba,” came the response, in the ADA’s sternest voice, and Benson grinned in spite of herself. He might _sound_ resolute, but she would bet there was panic in his eyes.

“No,” the girl responded.

“Go set that on the table, please,” Benson told her son, pointing, as she headed toward the bedroom.

“Rosie,” Barba said, and now his tone was cajoling. “Your guests will be here any minute. Let’s make a deal, _mija_.”

“No.”

“You’re getting close to bribery, Counsellor,” Benson said as she stepped into the doorway. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at the scene.

Barba looked over his shoulder, surprised—he clearly hadn’t heard her knock. His eyes, as always, softened at the sight of her, but she could see the stress in his face. “Hey,” he said, quietly. He was both embarrassed and relieved by her arrival. “Don’t laugh,” he pleaded, and she shook her head.

“What’s going on, here?” she asked, gently, looking at Rosie.

The toddler was standing near her bed, completely naked, her arms crossed over her chest and her dark brows drawn into a scowl.

“ _No_ , Aunt Livvie,” Rosie said, shaking her head.

“Hey, now, don’t be rude,” Barba told his daughter, and Benson came dangerously close, again, to laughing. He looked at her, saw her carefully-controlled humor, and sighed. “Apparently, wearing clothing is offensive, I’m an idiot, and she’s far too mature for pull-ups. To paraphrase.”

Benson grinned at him. “Stay calm,” she said, quietly, while the tiny child continued to glower at them.

Barba turned further toward Benson, tipping his head forward, and murmured, “What do I do?”

“She gives you a scowl and you suddenly forget how to bluff?” Benson asked.

“I did bluff,” he said. “Repeatedly. She called every one. I can’t just…force a dress over her head.” He hesitated, and the uncertainty in his expression was, to Benson, adorable. “Can I?” he asked.

Still smiling, she said, “You can. But you probably shouldn’t.” She looked at the little girl. “Rosie, we’re getting ready for your birthday party. Why don’t you put your dress on and come out to see? You’re going to have some friends coming to see you.”

“No dress,” Rosie said, shaking her head.

“Okay, how about some pants? We can put on a pull-up and some—”

“No pull-up, no pants,” Rosie answered.

“Well, honey,” Benson said, “if you want to come out to the party and open your presents, you’re gonna have to put some clothes on.”

“That’s blackmail,” Barba muttered. Then he frowned, looking remarkably like his young daughter. “Or extortion. I don’t even know anymore. What has she done to me?”

“So, is there something you _do_ want to wear?” Benson asked, glancing at Barba when he made a sound in his throat. “What?” she asked, quietly.

“She’s going to—”

“Pink,” Rosie said.

Barba sighed, and Benson glanced between the two of them as father and daughter glared at each other. “Rosie,” he said. “You can wear it later, after the party, okay? I promise. All night, if you want.”

“What am I missing? What does she want to wear?” Benson asked.

“They’ll think I’m crazy…” He shook his head, and his jaw tightened. He looked at Benson. “You know what, screw it. Who cares what people think, right? You want the shirt, _mija_ , you can wear the shirt.”

“Pink?” the girl asked, her expression suddenly hopeful.

“ _Si, mija,_ pink. _Rosa_.”

Though she couldn’t deny her curiosity, Benson said, “So you have this sorted, then? I’ll wait out here.” She pointed toward the doorway, and Barba turned toward her.

“We’ll be out in a minute,” he said. “Thanks, Liv.”

She wanted to kiss him; she always wanted to kiss him, but since their weekend in the cabin, they’d had almost no time alone together. She felt like she was going insane—every night, lying in bed, all she could think about was how far away he was, how badly she wanted to feel his fingers on her skin, his breath in her hair, his lips on hers.

He searched her face, and she knew that he could read her thoughts. A small smile touched his lips, but she saw concern in his eyes. Not about his daughter, not at the moment—he was worried about Benson, that she might be doubting their relationship. He reached out and touched her arm, and she smiled at him. She didn’t doubt his feelings for her any more than she doubted hers for him. She just wanted to spend more time with him.

“Papa, pink,” Rosie said impatiently.

“I’ll be out with Noah,” Benson told him, her smile widening at the look of exasperation on his face.

He nodded and turned back to his daughter, putting his hands on his hips. “Manners,” he said, and he heard Benson’s quiet laughter as she left the room.

 

*       *       *

 

“You guys don’t need to do that,” Barba said a few minutes later when he emerged to find Benson and Noah picking up the toys that had been scattered across the room. “Hey, buddy,” he added, smiling when Noah looked up at him.

“Hi,” the boy said.

Benson turned to face Barba, and said, “So the toy box is decorative?”

He laughed. “You’ve been waiting years to throw that back at me, haven’t you?”

Grinning, she said, “I didn’t know if I’d ever have the chance.” Before she could say anything else, her gaze landed on Rosie as the girl stepped up next to Barba’s leg.

The toddler was wearing one of Barba’s shirts. It was pink, and it hung to her ankles. The sleeves were rolled up to her wrists. She had what appeared to be the belt from a toddler-sized, fuzzy, pink bathrobe tied around her waist, cinching the shirt into a makeshift dress so that it didn’t drag onto the floor. To complete the outfit, she had a tie around her neck, loosely knotted and hanging nearly to her knees. It was diagonally striped in black and purple.

Rosie couldn’t have been more proud of her outfit, as evidenced by her lifted chin, her bright eyes, her one-hip-cocked pose as she came to a stop, and the smirk on her lips. Her hair was a dark and wild mess.

Benson’s eyes slid up to Barba’s. He arched an eyebrow and she tamped down her urge to laugh, not wanting to risk offending Rosie. He walked over and bent his head close to Benson’s. She caught her breath—she so badly wanted to kiss him, she could think of little else.

“Am I doing this wrong?” he asked, softly. He was smiling, but there was doubt in his eyes.

Benson put a hand against his chest. “No,” she assured him. In fact, she’d never been more moved by anything than seeing the way he was with Rosie. She was happy to see the insecurity slide from his expression, and she _did_ kiss him—quickly, not trusting herself to linger—on the corner of the mouth. “And I love you,” she whispered. She took a step back—she needed space between them, so she could think of something other than kissing him, touching him, smelling him.

“Uncle Rafa,” Noah said, before Barba could respond. “Can I wear a tie?”

“Uhhh…” Barba answered, glancing at Benson, “abso _lute_ ly you may, buddy. Why don’t you go pick one out in the closet?”

“Okay,” the boy said, dropping his armload of toys into the box and hurrying toward the bedroom. Rosie turned and toddled quickly after him.

“Don’t make a mess or get into anything else,” Benson called after them.

“Okay,” Noah repeated as he disappeared with Rosie on his heels.

“You’ll have sticky fingerprints all over your expensive silk—” Benson started, but she broke off abruptly when Barba turned, put his hands on her hips, and tugged her gently forward. His mouth covered hers, and she had no idea what she’d been saying. She grabbed hold of his sweatshirt to steady herself.

There was a knock on the door, and he made a sound in his throat as he pulled back. Their eyes met, and they could each see the same combination of feelings staring back at them: desire, frustration, and amusement.

“It was easier before I’d tasted you,” he said, softly. “This has been the longest month of my life.”

“It’s only been a month?” she asked, and he grinned. It _had_ been a whole month, she realized, since the afternoon they’d suddenly found themselves with two free hours—Noah was still at school, Rosie was with Barba’s mother, Barba settled a case unexpectedly early, and Benson, having a blessedly uneventful day at work, decided that this confluence of circumstances was too fortuitous to pass by and took the afternoon off. Since Lucia was sitting with Rosie at Barba’s apartment, Benson had picked him up at the office and taken him back to her place, where they’d spent every available minute exploring and enjoying each other’s bodies. It had been the first time since their weekend in the cabin—and now, another month had passed. He was right; it _had_ been easier to bear before they knew what they were missing.

He kissed her quickly on the forehead. “I love you, too,” he said, and then he was gone, headed toward the door to greet the guests for his daughter’s birthday party. Benson watched him—she could never keep her eyes off him for long. He let Amanda and Jesse Rollins into the apartment just as Noah and Rosie were coming out of the bedroom.

“Uncle Rafa—Hi, Aunt Amanda! Hi, Jesse!” Noah exclaimed. “Uncle Rafa, can I—”

“Hi Antmana, hi Chesse,” Rosie parroted, and Benson saw Barba shoot his daughter a look of complete adoration. Benson wanted to cover his entire face with kisses.

“Hello, there, Noah and Rosie!” Rollins said with a grin, ushering her daughter into the apartment. “Liv, Barba,” she added.

“Rollins,” Barba answered, drily, a subtle commentary on the usage of surnames while they were standing in his apartment.

Still grinning, Rollins nodded toward Rosie and told Barba, “I love the influence you’ve had on her fashion.”

Barba laughed, seeming a little embarrassed.

“Uncle Rafa,” Noah repeated, switching from foot to foot, holding a tie across his hands like a snake.

“Yes, Noah, my boy,” Barba said, taking the brightly-wrapped present from Rollins. He was amused by Noah’s eagerness.

“Come here,” Noah said.

“Hey, now,” Benson told her son, “don’t be—”

“Please,” Noah cut in, glancing quickly at his mother before returning his gaze to Barba.

“Yes,” Barba said. He shot Benson a smile to keep her from reprimanding the boy for his impatience and handed her the present. “I will come with you.” He looked at Rollins and added, “Make yourselves at home. Liv, will you answer the door if more people come?”

She nodded, watching as Noah put the tie into one fist so he could take Barba’s hand. After a moment’s thought, Rosie grabbed her father’s other hand, and the two kids led Barba toward the bedroom.

“They really seem to be getting along well,” Rollins said in a low voice as Jesse headed toward the toy box. “Is she settling in alright?”

“She still cries for Carla—mostly if she wakes up in the middle of the night, or when she’s overly tired.”

“Are you…?” Rollins asked, shooting a look toward the bedroom.

“No,” Benson answered with a small smile. “Noah and I sleep in our apartment.”

“Taking things slow?” Rollins asked, grinning. “All those years of pining weren’t—”

“Alright,” Benson cut in, and Rollins laughed at the lieutenant’s embarrassment. “Don’t make me regret telling you.”

Barba and Benson had both informed their bosses of the change in their relationship. Their work interactions were being restricted and monitored, but no official changes had yet been made. Benson had felt a responsibility to inform her detectives, though, so that they would be prepared for whatever might come.

They’d been less than surprised, of course.

Years of pining, indeed.

Rollins was about to say something when there was another knock on the door. Benson went to answer it, and found three women and two young children—a boy and a girl—standing in the hallway. They were Carla’s friends, and they’d come to celebrate Rosie’s birthday. They were the only invited guests, aside from Rollins and Jesse, and Benson and Noah. Barba knew that Rosie would be happy to see them, and he also knew that it meant a lot to Carla’s friends to be able to spend time with her daughter.

Benson introduced herself and invited the group inside. As soon as they’d all reached the living room, Barba, Noah, and Rosie emerged from the bedroom. Noah was wearing a white dress shirt, far too large for him—the excess was tucked into his jeans, making them look a little puffy around the waist, and the sleeves were rolled up and baggy. He was also wearing red suspenders, tightened up as far as they could be and still hanging loosely, and a blue tie.

Barba stopped outside his bedroom doorway, with one kid on either side of him, his hands resting lightly on their heads. Noah and Rosie _both_ looked proud, now, and Noah grinned at his mother.

“I feel underdressed,” one of the women said with a laugh.

 

*       *       *

 

Benson stepped up beside Barba, her hand automatically going to the small of his back. He was serving cake and ice cream onto paper plates. The apartment was filled with the sounds of children laughing and adults talking and Benson knew that his place had never seen so much activity.

The two of them were alone in the kitchen, and she pressed closer, resting her chin on his shoulder. “You’ve made quite the impression on the ladies in there,” she murmured near his ear, and a small shiver passed through him. “One of them in particular,” she added.

He glanced at her, placing a square of cake onto a plate. “Which one?” he asked, his lips quirking.

“You know which one. She’s been flirting and making eyes at you for an hour.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head, spooning ice cream onto the plate. “I didn’t notice,” he said.

Smiling, she kissed his shoulder, running a finger up his arm. “Do you like the idea of me being jealous?” she asked quietly, still smiling.

He turned his head to regard her, and their faces were just inches apart. “Jealous, maybe—worried, no,” he said.

“I’m not worried,” she answered.

His eyes dropped to her mouth. “My mother’s coming by later to see Rosie, I’m sure she’d love to watch both of them. Can we go out?”

She sighed, softly, her breath fanning his face. “That sounds nice,” she said, watching his lips curve in response. “Maybe I’ll invite you back to my place afterwards.” Their eyes met, and their breaths caught. Desire and anticipation thrummed through them like electricity, and all the noises of the world had faded to insignificance around them.

And then he let out a sigh of his own, breaking the spell. He kissed her lips, quickly, chastely—lingering for just a heartbeat, just enough to let her know how badly he wanted to take his time—and turned his attention back to the cake. “I’ll make a reservation,” he said.

“We’ll celebrate the one-month anniversary of the last time you had your—” She broke off abruptly, straightening, when Noah walked into the kitchen. She saw Barba’s smirk and felt herself blushing.

“You’re just in time to help, _mijo_ ,” Barba said, handing the boy a paper plate. “Let’s hand these out, yeah?”

 

*       *       *

 

“I’m so sorry,” Benson said. “We got a call, I’m heading in now. Lucy’s here with Noah. I…I’m sorry—”

“Hey,” he said, and his voice came through the phone as a soft caress. “Just call me when you get home. Go save the world, Liv. Just remember that I love you.”

She smiled. “I wish you were here,” she admitted. She wasn’t used to feeling so needy, but any time they were apart, all she wanted was him beside her.

“I am here,” he murmured into the phone. “Always.”

“I know. I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Love you.”

She smiled again. “I know,” she repeated. “I love you, too.”

 

*       *       *

 

_Are you at home? Finishing early, we could still meet?_

Benson was putting her coat on when she got his answering text: _Sorry_ , it started, and she sighed, hating the ache of disappointment settling into her gut. _At office. Tomorrow?_

She knew she shouldn’t be upset. It wasn’t his fault—she’d been called into work, she’d been the one to cancel their date, not him. Still, as soon as she’d realized that she was going to be able to leave the precinct before it was too late, she’d hoped to be able to salvage their evening.

So much for that idea. She supposed she should’ve known better. They were simply too busy for last-minute dates; they would have to plan further in advance.

 _Liv_?

She knew that he was about to call her, and she quickly responded: _It’s ok, tired anyway._ He was worried that she was upset, and if he called her, he would hear the disappointment in her voice, and he would feel guilty. His guilt was the last thing she wanted. _Tomorrow_ , she wrote. _Call me later?_

 _Yes_.

She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.

 _I love you_. She glanced down at the text, deciding she would stop on her way home for a quick drink. Maybe it would improve her mood. She sent a quick _heart_ emoji in response and slid her phone into her pocket.

 

*       *       *

 

“Is this seat taken?”

Benson looked up, surprised. “What are you—”

He held out a hand, and said, “I’m Rafael.”

Benson stared at him while he waited, with his hand outstretched and a smile on his lips. He was wearing jeans and a blue chambray shirt, and his hair was wind-tossed. His eyes caught the low light of the bar. His beauty stole her breath.

She took his hand in hers, and said, quietly, “Olivia.” His hand was warm, and sent a thrill through her, but he released her quickly and gestured toward the stool.

“Do you mind?” he asked, and she shook her head. “Thanks,” he told her, with a smile. He nodded toward the bartender, who was already pouring his scotch.

“Come here often?” Benson asked when he’d gotten his drink.

Barba chuckled. “I just have one of those faces.” He put his elbow on the bar and turned toward her. “Sorry, I should’ve asked—are you meeting someone?”

“No, my date bailed on me,” she answered.

He shook his head with a grimace. “Schmuck,” he said. He picked up his scotch and tipped it toward her.

“To be fair, I bailed on him, first.”

“Even so,” he said, sipping his drink while he watched her. “Lucky for me, though. Finding you here alone.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could’ve found another stool.”

“Not one with as beautiful a view,” he answered.

She rolled her eyes. “Does that sort of thing actually work for you?” she asked, but she couldn’t keep the grin from her face. This was fun, and she was happy—happier than she could’ve imagined—to see him. She wanted to touch him, taste him—she wanted to pull him into the bathroom and kiss him until they couldn’t breathe. It had been so long, too long, since she’d felt his hands on her skin, since she’d felt him—

“I don’t know, I’ve never tried it,” he said, and when she met his heavy gaze, she knew that he’d followed the line of her thoughts. She felt herself blushing and wanted to kiss the smirk from his face. Just a few minutes earlier, she’d been trying not to feel sorry for herself. It wasn’t his fault that they’d had so much difficulty finding time to be alone together. Their lives were busy. They both had responsibilities.

“So,” she said. They were facing each other, knees almost touching. “Rafael. What do you do?”

“In life?” he asked. “I wander from bar to bar, spouting vague quotes from obscure literature.”

“Aren’t you getting a bit old for that sort of thing?”

“‘You can’t teach the old maestro a new tune,’” he said, shrugging a shoulder.

“Who said that?”

“Before _me_ , just _now_?” he asked, arching a brow and pointing at himself. “Kerouac.”

“Oh, so you’re a beatnik.”

“Eh,” he said, bobbing his head back and forth, seeming to consider the word. “I’m too Cuban for the suggestion of communism that Herb Caen intended,” he answered. “Besides, I’m really more of a Robert Burns guy.”

“Ah, an intellectual and a _romantic_. That’s what they all claim.”

“Or was it Robert Frost…? All, _who_?”

“The guys,” she said, gesturing toward him. “The guys who use cheesy pickup lines in bars.”

He made a face, shaking his head. “ _Those_ guys? The worst. I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with them. I suppose it comes with being the most beautiful person in the room.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice, and added, “If anyone tries to bother you while I’m here, you don’t have to worry.”

Even though she knew this was a game—even though they both knew she didn’t need or want him to physically defend her—even though they were sitting on stools they’d occupied a hundred times before, side by side—she felt a shiver of pleasure pass through her at his words, at the shine in his eyes, at the sincerity in his voice. The words were lighthearted, but his tone was not. She knew—she had always known—that he would do everything within his power to protect her; she would do the same for him.

“I appreciate that,” she managed. She cleared her throat. “You’re not married, are you?”

“No. I do have kids, though. I hope that’s not a deal-breaker?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Kids?” she asked. “That depends. Less than a dozen?”

He laughed. “Just two,” he said, and her heart stumbled in her chest. “Boy and a girl, five and two.” Then, because he could see the tears that were glistening in her eyes, he moved on quickly: “You’re not married, I hope?”

She shook her head, temporarily robbed of her ability to speak.

“That’s a relief,” he said. “So, Olivia. What do you do?” He raised his glass to his lips, sipping his drink, watching her.

“I’m a contortionist in this traveling circus,” she said, and he choked on his scotch. He put the back of his hand to his mouth, his eyes watering. She barely managed to keep a straight face as she continued, “We’re only in town through the weekend, so you lucked out.”

He coughed and set his drink on the bar, shaking his head. “That _is_ lucky,” he said, his voice hoarse from the offending burn of scotch. He coughed again, into his fist. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long does it take to warm up for something like that?”

She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. “I don’t mind at all,” she said. “And you know, sometimes it can take hours. Just stretching, relaxing, stretching. Breathing. I usually do it in front of a mirror.” She glanced around, pitching her voice even lower, and added, “Naked. So I can see if I’m doing it right.”

His pupils were dilated, and she thought—it was hard to be certain in the low lighting, but she thought that he was blushing. He seemed unable to think of something to say, and she took a special kind of pleasure from having rendered him mute.

“I hope you don’t think this is too forward,” she said, still leaned toward him. “But how would you like to take me to dinner?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he managed.

“You seemed to be having trouble speaking, so I thought I should take charge.”

“Thank God for feminism,” he said, grinning when she arched an eyebrow at him. He grabbed his drink and finished it with a quick swallow and a slight grimace. He pulled out his wallet and dropped cash onto the bar. “Shall we?” he asked, getting to his feet and holding out a hand.

She also stood, but she reached for her phone. “Just let me call Lucy,” she said.

“It’s taken care of,” he told her, quietly, and she looked up, surprised. He smiled. “I mean, I don’t know who Lucy is, but I’m sure it’s all…copacetic.”

“Ah, those fancy poet words,” she said, and he grinned at her. She was going to ask for details, but looking at his face, she found that she didn’t need to. She trusted him completely. “Let’s go, then,” she said, grabbing her jacket. He took it from her hands and held it up. “I thought you were a feminist,” she teased, turning to slip her arms into the sleeves.

He leaned his mouth close to her ear and said, “Oh, I am.” She suppressed a shiver. It made no sense that those three tiny words should sound like both a threat and a promise, and yet they sent a thrill of anticipation through her.

She turned toward him. “Do you still have a reservation?” she asked.

“Baby, I’ve got no reservations,” he said, winking.

She laughed. “Wow,” she answered. “Alright, _Rafael_ , then how about I pick a place?”

“You lead, I follow,” he said. He held out an arm. “May I?”

She slipped her arm through his, leaning close, breathing in his familiar scent.

 

***       *       ***

 

“What’s good here?” she asked, even though she’d picked the place.

“Have you eaten much Cuban?” he asked.

She smiled. “Surprisingly, no,” she answered, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“Will you let me order for you?” he asked.

“I don’t know, can I trust you?” she joked; they both knew that she could, and that she did.

“I think you’ll like it,” he answered with a crooked smile.

She lifted a hand in permission, as the waiter appeared to take their order.

Benson watched Barba as he ordered in Spanish—something with pork, although she didn’t understand all of it. She still couldn’t believe how much she loved just being near him, watching him, listening to him. He ordered a bottle of white wine, and once the waiter had left them alone, Barba looked at Benson and put his elbows on the table, smiling at her.

“Do you bring all your dates here?” she asked.

“Only the ones I pick up in Forlini’s,” he answered. “So, Olivia, tell me about yourself.”

She rolled her eyes. He knew pretty much everything about her, of course. “Why don’t _you_ tell me something that you’ve never told anyone before,” she said. “Since you _picked me up_ and all.”

He was smiling, but his eyes were serious as he regarded her across the table.

“When I was a kid, I used to dream of Manhattan the way people dream of Paris or Beijing or…” He lifted a hand in a little gesture, “Moscow,” he said, and she stared at him, already fascinated by this revelation, unable to look away from his gaze. “Where I grew up, everyone spoke Spanish.” He made another gesture, circling his finger in the air to indicate the room, and his meaning was clear: his neighborhood had been steeped in Cuban heritage and culture, which she already knew. She knew that he’d gone to a Catholic school in the south Bronx, that he’d grown up poor and worked his ass off to earn a full scholarship to Harvard.

He continued: “Half of the kids wanted to stay there forever, start families and raise their own kids in the same few blocks in which they’d grown up. The other half wanted to get out as soon as possible, travel the world and never look back. I was a quiet kid by nature, _shy_ if you can believe it—scrawny and small, awkward—but I _could_ talk when I needed to. My father used to say…” He looked away for a moment, and she waited for him to gather his thoughts. His gaze returned to hers. “My father used to say that I would talk my way into prison or the morgue, but—” He shrugged one shoulder, and finished, “he never understood me. My father did all the hitting in our family—and my friends did all the fighting outside. It was my job to keep them out of trouble afterward. And I did my best.

“Anyway, now, I dreamed of getting out of there, but I didn’t think about…Well, everything I did, all the work—there was this constant desire, this drive, to prove myself, but underneath, I had this idea that if I could just get to Manhattan, and prove that I belonged here, I’d finally be happy. _Actually_ happy, you know?”

He paused, and she said, “So you studied poetry at Harvard?” She was glad to see him smile. She didn’t like thinking of him unhappy and alone. She didn’t want him to get mired in thoughts of the past.

With a curve of his lips, he said, “I learned to wax poetic with the best of them. Eventually, I didn’t need to prove myself anymore—”

“You already had.”

“—and I was getting offers, good offers, but I had this goal, right? This arbitrary benchmark I’d set for myself, of what success would mean, and it wasn’t a job title, it was a place. When I was given the choice, I moved here in a heartbeat. People thought it was a lateral move, at best, or stagnating, at worst. But this was the goal,” he said, lifting his hands, palms up. “And I was proud that I’d made it, but I couldn’t explain that to anyone because I’d never told anyone what I was working toward. I had pride. I’d made it here. But the thing is, I didn’t wake up in the morning magically happier. I was no longer the poor kid from the Bronx—I could already visit Broadway, wander Times Square, sit in Central Park—I already had access by then so what was the difference?

“I had a bit of an existential crisis, to tell you the truth. I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I considered quitting almost as soon as I’d gotten here. Not quitting altogether, just…” He waved a hand. “Getting out of the city, maybe. But then something happened. I got this case—an impossible case, really. And I suddenly had something to prove, again. Something to fight for.”

“You found the perfect job for you,” she said. It wasn’t a question—she knew that no one could do what he did, not as well, and that no one could care more—but she felt a slither of unease at her own words. He was as suited to his job as she was to hers, and that was the main reason she hadn’t allowed herself to really consider how their relationship would affect them. Before Noah, her career had been her entire life. Since becoming a mother, her priorities had shifted, and for the first time she had something—someone—for whom she would give up her job without hesitation.

Having a life, finally, outside of her career, however, didn’t mean she loved her job any less. It didn’t mean she wanted, or could even imagine, doing anything else. She was the best person for the job, and it was the best job for her.

The same was true for Barba.

He was watching her, reading her thoughts. He shook his head. “It wasn’t the job,” he said, quietly. “Yes, I’m good at it.”

“The best,” she said.

With a smile, he continued, “I love the job. And making a difference. But that wasn’t it. It was meeting…someone. Finding a whole new desire to prove myself—to _her_. _For_ her. If you’d asked me, I would’ve said I knew what love was. I thought I’d felt it, but I was wrong. All of my goals, all of the work, everything I’d done, was for me. To get me where I wanted to be—and of course, I wanted to lift those around me, my mother, my friends, I wanted to get to a place where I could help the people I cared about, but even that was a selfish desire. I wanted to be the hero instead of the scrawny kid who lived in fear in his own house and hid behind his friends in the playground. But I never knew the first thing about being a hero, I’d never met one, I’d never really understood the sacrifice required. So I worked my way to Manhattan, and suddenly, there she was. Someone who’d fought harder, and made more of a difference in the world, than I could even fathom. And I knew. It wasn’t Manhattan that I’d been swimming toward. It was her.”

“Rafael,” she said. Her eyes were burning; his were shining.

“To be worthy of her love is all I could ever strive for.”

She said, quietly, “If she loves you, she’d never want you to give up a career you’ve spent your whole life building, a career that makes you happy—and it does.”

He was leaning on the table, and she was trapped by his stare. “It hasn’t come to that,” he said. “But if it does, there’s no choice. Not for me, Liv. I have kids to think about now, not just financially but…morally. They’ll grow up knowing what unconditional love is—something you and I didn’t have, didn’t understand, for a long time. They’ll have a father who—let’s face it, I’m far from perfect, but I’m not _my_ father. Or yours. No matter what, I’ll be there. The job matters, of course it does, but it’s…I can do as much good someplace else, maybe even more. I learned that from you, because you taught me how to be one of the good guys.”

“You were always a good guy,” she said.

He smiled. “I tried,” he answered. “I just didn’t understand what it meant until I met you.”

“I’m not comfortable with the thought of you…losing a part of yourself—”

“Liv,” he said, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Nothing matters to me more than you and our kids. Nothing. We don’t have to talk about this now, I didn’t mean to…”

“Break character?” she asked with a small smile.

“Right. I just don’t want you to worry, Liv. Not about anything—not about me. I know we’ve been…I don’t know…distant, almost, since the cabin—”

“We’ve both been busy, and you have to do what’s best for Rosie right now,” she said. “I just miss…being alone with you.”

“Me, too,” he murmured, searching her face. “So let’s enjoy the night. We’re just Rafael and Olivia, two people who met in a bar—”

“A poet and a contortionist,” she said.

“I’m doing my God’s-honest best not to think about that,” he said, suddenly grinning.

She leaned forward, tipping her head. “Think about it,” she whispered, drawing back in her seat, and pulling her hand from his, as the waiter appeared with their bottle of wine. Barba seemed flustered, and she was glad. He was right; they needed a distraction from the responsibilities of real life, even if just for the evening. She didn’t want to think about either of their careers being affected by their relationship, but they would _have_ to address those concerns. Because she loved him as much as he loved her. She wouldn’t give him up, not for her job. Listening to him talk about their family, she’d realized that it was no longer only Noah for whom she would give up her career.

But they could talk about those things later.

The waiter poured wine into their glasses and left the bottle in a bucket of ice. They thanked him, and after he was gone, Benson and Barba looked at each other across the table.

“I think maybe a demonstration is in order,” she said, and his eyes widened. She smiled. “Poetry, I mean.”

He adjusted his shirt, leaning against his seatback. He cleared his throat. She had no idea what he was going to say, and she did her best to prepare herself. If he started spouting off about love being like a red, red rose, she might end up sitting in his lap, and she had no desire to be kicked out of the restaurant before she got to taste whatever Cuban dish he’d ordered for her.

“ _‘I sat belonely, down a tree, humbled, fat and small. A little lady sing to me, I couldn’t see at all_ , _’_ ” he started. She could see the amusement in his eyes, and the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his lips, and both were more potent than any words that Robert Burns might’ve written. She watched him, mesmerized, as he recited a poem—a poem that she was pretty sure hadn’t been written by any poet of the romantics, Burns or otherwise.

When he’d finished, she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “ _‘Potty menthol shout?’_ ” she repeated, and he showed his teeth in a smile. “Who wrote that?”

“John Lennon,” Barba answered, his grin widening at her surprised laugh. “I could offer you some, I don’t know, Dylan Thomas? But I don’t usually work for free.”

She’d kicked her shoes off beneath the table, and when he felt her toes sliding up his calf, his mouth snapped shut and his eyes widened. She almost laughed, but a moment later, as she slid her toes to his inner thigh, his chin lowered and he speared her with a gaze that was full of so much heat that she lost her ability to breathe.

She settled the arch of her foot against his crotch. She hoped his lap was hidden by the edge of the table cloth, but she didn’t care nearly as much as she should. All she really cared about was the light of lust suddenly burning in his eyes, and the tightening in her belly that answered it.

He reached down and took hold of the sides of his seat and carefully slid his chair forward, keeping his eyes on hers. Well, that answered the question about whether or not his lap had been hidden beneath the tablecloth—and solved the problem. He was already stirring against her foot, hardening, and the heat spread through the arch of her foot, up her calf, and settled into her center.

He picked up his glass and sipped his wine. She could see the flush darkening his cheeks.

“What kind of payment would you need?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “What does it typically cost for a demonstration of _your_ …talent?”

“Which talent?” she asked, adjusting her foot more snugly against him.

He cleared his throat. “Contortionism,” he said.

“Oh, that?” she answered with a smile. “I actually do that for—”

The waiter appeared beside her with a bowl of Cuban toast, and Benson jumped, surprised and guilty, accidently digging her heel into Barba’s crotch. From the corner of her eye, she saw him wince, but he showed remarkable self-control. She felt the blood flooding into her cheeks. She wanted to yank her foot from his lap, but didn’t dare move, afraid it would make things worse for all of them.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked, glancing between them, seemingly unaware of her embarrassment.

“We’re good, thank you,” Barba told him with a smile.

As soon as the waiter was gone, Benson tried to pull her foot back. Barba reached a hand beneath the table and caught her ankle. She opened her mouth to apologize, but before she could, he said, “Shh,” and pressed his thumb against the arch of her foot. He set her heel on his thigh and started massaging her foot, keeping his other hand on the table.

His fingers were strong and warm and sure, and she’d never known that a foot massage could feel so _intimate_. She stared across the table at him, her cheeks still hot, and she could feel the ghostly touch of his fingers all the way up her leg, all the way _inside her_.

“You should try the bread,” he said, nodding toward the bowl while his thumb drew circles on her sole.

“I’d choke,” she answered, and he laughed, his hand tightening around her foot. He was always beautiful, but when he _laughed_ , he stole her breath. And _he_ was looking at her as though she were the most beautiful thing in the world, and that look—the sincerity in his face, the love in his eyes—gave her no doubt that he believed it.

“I’d save you,” he said, and she had no doubt about that, either. He tipped his head. “Tell me a secret, Olivia,” he said, quietly. “Some…secret desire.”

“I’ve never had sex in the shower,” she answered. She had no idea she was going to say it, and as soon as the words left her mouth, she glanced around. No one seemed to be within earshot. She returned her gaze to Barba’s. “I’ve thought about that a lot, lately.”

Holding her ankle, he moved her foot over to his crotch so she could feel the effect that her words had on his body, and she felt a heady mix of power and desire. She curled her toes against him, and his fingers burned into her skin.

“Just lately?” he asked, his voice husky and low.

“It’s occurred to me before,” she said. “But especially the last month or so.”

He smiled at her. “I’ve had some thoughts of my own, lately,” he said.

“Yeah? It’s good we ran into each other tonight, then.”

“Fortuitous,” he agreed.

“Desires are…” She hesitated, unsure how to say what she meant. Wanting him—wanting him when they couldn’t be alone—was both wonderful and terrible. The building of anticipation was thrilling; the frustration of unrequited desires was not. “Well, you’re the poet. Do you have a quote about desires?”

He considered, now massaging her lower calf with one hand. “ _Quod me nutrit me destruit_ ,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“Roughly, _that which nourishes me also destroys me_.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” she breathed.

He sighed. She hadn’t meant to upset him. “Liv,” he said, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“We’re together,” she told him. “I don’t just mean here, tonight, although I’m glad for that. I mean…in life, Rafa. Things are up in the air right now, but they’ll settle down. We’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“You shouldn’t have to wait.”

“I’m a big girl,” she said with a little laugh. “I can make my own decisions.”

“I know.”

“So, let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about…art. Or music. What’s your go-to karaoke song?”

“‘Shameless,’” he answered without hesitation.

She blinked, surprised. She’d meant it as a joke. “You do karaoke?” she asked.

He laughed at the look on her face. “Never in my life,” he answered. “But,” he added, holding up a finger, “I think it was maybe the year I graduated high school, or the year after, that the song first came out. But I was in my…second year? Maybe? At Harvard when Garth Brooks did it, and I got wasted at a frat party—”

“You went to frat parties?”

“Rarely,” he said with a crooked smile. “But I got up on the piano and sang ‘Shameless.’ I’m told it was spectacular,” he added, and she laughed. “All _I_ know is that Marcy Mason pulled me off the piano and tried to _ravish_ me right there in front of everyone.”

At his choice of words, and the look of something akin to bemused horror on his face, she laughed again, laughed until she had tears in her eyes. She pictured a young and skinny Rafael Barba, nearly drunk off his feet, beet-red and mortified but not without the cocky pep he’d so carefully cultivated, and the whole image was hilarious.

“ _Tried_ to?” she asked through her laughter. “So you managed to fight her off?”

“Well, my roommate was madly in love with her,” he said.

“Oh, so _otherwise_ you might’ve—”

“Passed out on top of her, mostly likely. I held my liquor like a sieve.”

“It went right through you?”

He grinned. “That, too,” he said. “Maybe I should’ve said sponge?”

“I thought words were your _thing_ ,” she answered.

“Something must be distracting me. The waiter’s coming, don’t jump this time,” he added with a wink and a smile, and she was laughing when the waiter set their plates on the table. When they were once more alone, Barba said, “Speaking of sieves…”

“Uh-oh,” she said, widening her eyes. “Are you going to be _able_ to—”

He gently lifted her foot from his lap, and she lowered it to the floor. “I might be a while,” he told her. “Feel free to start without me.”

“I would never!” she objected, loving the way his face creased when he smiled.

He cleared his throat and glanced around. “It’s a good thing I’m wearing jeans, at least,” he muttered.

“More restricting? Rougher, too, I imagine. You’ll have to wear a suit, next time.”

He pinned her with his gaze. “I’ll have to sit beside you, next time,” he said, and her stomach squirmed pleasantly at the heat in his eyes. He adjusted his shirt as he straightened from his chair. “Don’t look, you’ll make it worse,” he muttered, and then he was gone, headed toward the bathroom, and she looked around. No one was paying them any attention, and she was glad. She was appalled by her own behavior, but she wasn’t sorry for it. She was enjoying herself, and Barba, too much to stop.

 

*       *       *

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he said, chuckling, drawing up short outside the karaoke bar.

“Please,” she said, putting her palms together in supplication.

“ _First_ of all, please don’t ever beg me for anything, I fear my heart might explode in my chest.”

“You don’t seem to mind in bed.”

“Secondly,” he said, giving her a pointed look, “a glass of scotch and half a bottle of wine do not equal karaoke-level _wasted_ for me.”

“I’ll buy you more drinks,” she offered, flashing her teeth in a smile. “All the drinks you want,” she added, and he laughed, shaking his head. “Think of it as…reciting poetry, but to a beat.”

He arched a brow. “That’s not exactly what _beat poetry_ meant, I think you’re thinking of rap.”

“You’re Cuban—”

“I’m not Pitbull,” he interrupted, and she laughed.

“Alright,” she said, taking hold of his arm. She didn’t want to pressure him into it if he was uncomfortable. Maybe she could convince him to sing in the privacy of the bedroom, instead. “We don’t have to—”

He kissed her, quickly, and pulled back to look at her face. “Okay,” he said. “If you want me to, I will.”

“Really?” she asked, trying not to sound too excited.

He smiled. “ _Si, mi amor_ ,” he murmured.

She hesitated. “Do I have to do it, too?” she asked.

He took her hand in his. “You don’t have to do anything, my love,” he said. “Although if you _did_ decide to get up and sing, I can almost guarantee I’d end up embarrassing myself in front of everyone. I mean, more embarrassing than me singing.”

“Are you talking about that problem you had earlier, at dinner?” she asked near his ear.

“Yes,” he said.

“Seeing me sing would do _that_?” she asked, amused.

He grimaced. “I hope not, for both our sakes, but something tells me…”

“We might have to find out, then,” she said, and he grinned at her as he opened the door.

 

*       *       *

 

Two glasses of scotch later, he was up on the small stage. She knew he was embarrassed, but he’d also cocked a hip and pasted a smirk onto his face, and it was all she could do to stay in her seat instead of tackling him.

“I promised to sing ‘Shameless,’ and I will, if I’m not kicked out halfway through this first song, but if you could all just bear with me…for a few minutes, I’d like to sing something that most of you probably don’t know—Are there any show tune fanatics in here?” he asked, and there was a round of cheers and applause from the room. “Ah, well maybe you do,” he said. “Pardon my atrocious French,” he added, glancing over as the music started. “This is from The Baker’s Wife.”

He took a deep breath. The intro appeared on the screen in French, but he didn’t read it; he knew the song.

Benson didn’t know it, and she was in no way prepared for what she heard when he started singing. She straightened in her chair, stunned. The French was alright—it had nothing on him muttering words of love in Spanish—but his _voice_ seemed to go right through her, pinning her to her seat, robbing her of breath and rational thought.

He was watching her—the performance was for her, after all, and no one else—and she knew that he could read her thoughts. She thought about what he’d said outside, and was suddenly glad that _her_ reaction wasn’t as physically noticeable as his would be.

It wasn’t until he started singing in English that she realized the point of the song—the point of _him_ singing the song for _her_. When he got to ‘ _and the someone who touches your hair every day, touches you now in a different way. And you may want to run, or you may want to stay, forever. And since life is the cry of the gull, and the taste of the stew, and the way that you feel when he touches you, now your whole life is different. Now your whole life is new_ ,’ it was no longer just his voice affecting her. The lyrics brought tears to her eyes, and she swallowed around the lump of emotion in her throat. He wasn’t just talking about his touch changing her life, or her outlook on life; their effect on each other was mutual and equal.

When he finished the song, the room erupted in applause and cheers and whistles, but this only seemed to fluster Barba. He watched Benson for her reaction, the only one about which he cared, and seemed relieved by the smile she offered while she clapped.

“Okay, while we switch gears from Stephen Schwartz to Billy Joel,” Barba said, with a glance toward the young woman running the machine. There was laughter around the room; Barba had them eating from the palm of his hand, and he wasn’t even trying. Maybe it was part of his courtroom charisma, now so integral to his personality that he didn’t even realize when he was tapping into it.

Or maybe it was just _him_. If she couldn’t resist him, why should she expect anyone else to be able to?

His version of ‘Shameless’ was closer to Garth Brooks’s than Billy Joel’s, but uniquely his own—his voice was low, painfully sexy, and it seemed to Benson that everyone in the room was hypnotized. Barba didn’t notice; he only had eyes for her. And that gave her an idea for what to sing, because even though he would never say so, she felt that she _owed_ him a song—and then some—for this gift that he was giving her.

When he’d finished, he swaggered back to their small table with a wave of acknowledgment toward a group of whistlers, and sank into his seat with a sheepish smile at Benson. She wanted to kiss him and didn’t dare. She wouldn’t be able to stop, and they were in public.

“I’m going to pay you back for that,” she said.

His smile widened.

“If you have to use the bathroom, you’d better go now while I have her set me up,” she said, and he chuckled.

“I do, actually,” he said, once more pushing to his feet.

“Sieve,” she muttered, shaking her head, and he nodded in agreement. “Hurry back.”

“Absolutely,” he said, heading toward the restrooms while she walked over to talk to the woman running the karaoke machine.

Benson felt a flutter of nerves, but she shoved them aside. She didn’t care what anyone else thought of her, or her performance; she only cared about the look that she knew she would see in Barba’s eyes. Plus, she had enough alcohol in her system to give her a boost of courage.

She smiled at the thought, and glanced toward the bathroom as Barba emerged. He was immediately accosted by a woman who’d clearly been waiting for his exit, and Benson saw that he was taken aback.

 _He really doesn’t know_ , she thought, amazed. When she’d first met him, he’d been full of strut and ego, but she’d learned quickly enough that it was an act. He could be cocky, yes—about his skills as an attorney. He could turn on the charm in a heartbeat, and he treated flirtation like a chess match. In spite of all of that, he couldn’t understand how much he _appealed_ to people.

He looked up and caught her eye, and she smiled. She felt the tiniest twinge of jealousy when the woman put her hand on his arm, a bit of possessiveness that surprised her, but she certainly wasn’t _worried_. She turned and stepped up onto the stage. From the corner of her eye, she saw Barba walking toward their table—and the woman heading off toward the back of the room where her friends were seated.

He had just returned to his chair when the music started, and Benson looked at him. He arched an eyebrow, recognizing the song immediately. It was ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,’ and she honored the lyrics by keeping her eyes on Barba.

She started out a bit shakily, but his steady gaze, and the smile on his face, gave her confidence—as did all the wine she’d consumed—and by the time she finished, she’d gotten much more into the song. Mostly, that was because she could see the effect she was having on Barba—not physically, no, she couldn’t see beneath the table, but she could see it in his eyes.

When she finally got back to their table, she definitely felt more of a buzz than when she’d started. The adrenaline and wine had mixed themselves into a potent cocktail, and she gave her head a little shake.

Barba half-rose from his chair as she stopped beside him, but she waved him down. “I’m fine,” she said, because she could see the concern on his brow. “I’m just going to run to the restroom, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” he said, still looking troubled.

Halfway to the bathroom, she looked up, blinking in surprise, as someone stepped into her path. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, and she had to bite back the urge to laugh. The guy was 6-foot, dressed in jeans and a Yale sweatshirt, with a backward Yankees cap on his head. He had to be in his twenties. She thought it must be a joke, until she smelled the whiskey on his breath. Him being serious—and intoxicated—didn’t make it any less funny to her, though. She was tempted to tell him that she was old enough to be his mother, and decided against it. She was far from sober, herself, but she was thinking more clearly than he was.

“Excuse me,” she said, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I’m just going—”

“That was some song you sang,” he said, slurring the ‘s’ words. “You know you’re the hottest chick in here?”

 _Do people still say ‘chick?’_ she wanted to ask, but she resisted that temptation, as well. “Thank you,” she said, instead, “If you’ll excuse me—”

“My buddies and I have a room for the night—” he started.

“I’m not interested, thank you,” she said, stepping around him. If he wasn’t able to take _no_ for an answer, she was going to have to make a bigger deal of this than she wanted.

“You’ll have more fun with us than the little French dude,” the guy said, although he made no move to block her.

She laughed. “He’s not French,” she said. She paused beside him and, even though she knew she shouldn’t, added, “And he’s not little.” She heard his friends laughing as she went into the bathroom.

There were a few women in the room, but she offered only a brief smile before ducking into a stall. After she’d peed, she found herself alone in the restroom, and she washed her hands and splashed water on her face. She didn’t care about her makeup, and she knew that Barba wouldn’t, either. He would care less than she did. All she wanted was to go somewhere, away from the crowds and the noise, somewhere dark and private where they could put an end to the hours of foreplay in which they’d been engaging.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, her gaze immediately found his, but she could tell by his posture, and the frown on his forehead, that something was wrong. His eyes cut to her left, then back to her face, and she turned her head to find Mr. Yale Sweatshirt stepping toward her. She sighed.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he said, grinning drunkenly, and his speech seemed even more slurred than a few minutes earlier. He gestured toward her with his half-full glass. “I didn’t mean to insult your little boyfriend, I just think you can do better is all.”

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Chad,” he answered. “What’s yours?”

 _Lieutenant Benson, you little prick_ , she thought, but she didn’t want to let her annoyance color the situation. “You should probably head back to that room with your friends, now.”

“Come with us, baby.”

She gritted her teeth. “No. And you should think carefully about how you proceed from here, Chad.”

“Why’s that?” he asked, putting a hand on her arm.

She shook it off, but before she could answer, a familiar voice beside her said, “Because no means no.”

She felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach; she hadn’t wanted Barba pulled into this ridiculousness, but she should’ve known he wouldn’t stay away.

“You should mind your business, _Pepé Le Pew_ ,” Chad said, grinning at his own wit as his friends laughed.

“I would’ve thought that reference was before your time,” Barba remarked, sounding unperturbed.

“Huh?”

“Yale? I thought about it. Decided on Harvard, instead, but if you were alive you were still pissing in your diapers, so maybe things have—”

Chad tossed the rest of his whiskey onto the front of Barba’s shirt.

“Hey,” Benson said, her irritation flaring into outright anger.

Barba just blinked in surprise. He looked up at Chad, who was three inches taller, and said, “Seriously?”

“You want a fight?” Chad asked.

“I’m starting to,” Barba answered, and Benson put a hand on his arm. He glanced at her and let out a breath. They couldn’t let their evening be ruined by some young idiot. Offering her half a smile, he said, “That’s why I didn’t go to frat parties.”

“What’s that mean?” Chad asked, shoving at his chest. Barba took a step backward, his jaw clenching.

“Stop it,” Benson said, putting a hand against Chad’s shoulder. He didn’t know she was wearing a gun beneath her jacket, or that she had a badge in her pocket. She’d rather he not find out, either, because arresting him would do nothing but derail her evening with Barba.

“He came over here, got in my face,” Chad said. “You want him, keep him. You bitches all like—”

Maybe the alcohol had slowed her reflexes, but by the time her brain had registered Barba’s movement, it was too late to stop him; he punched Chad squarely in the face, sending the bigger man stumbling backward as his glass shattered onto the floor.

Barba was shaking out his fist when Chad sprang forward, and hit him in the eye. Barba kept his feet, but barely. By the time he’d recovered his senses, however, Benson had Chad’s arm pinned behind his back and her other hand gripping the nape of his neck.

“Everyone, calm down,” she said. “Unless you want to spend the night in jail, I _strongly_ urge you to let this go. Go back to your hotel and sober up.” She shoved him toward his friends and took Barba’s arm. “Let’s go,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the stunned faces of the drunken collegiate and his buddies. She saw a bouncer heading toward her, so she pulled out her badge and flashed it in his direction. “We’re leaving,” she told him. “Just keep an eye on him, make sure he’s not harassing anyone, call the police if they make trouble.” The bouncer nodded, cutting past her toward Chad. “Are you alright?” Benson asked Barba, looking at him, and his reddening cheek, as they walked.

“I could’ve taken him,” he muttered.

“I know,” she said. “You’re scrappier than you look.”

He laughed, his eyes sparkling with humor, and she leaned closer against his side. “Sorry, Liv,” he murmured, near her ear.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Just take me somewhere we can be alone.”

 

*       *       *

 

Benson had her hand in Barba’s back pocket as they walked down the hallway. With each step, the flex of his muscles against her palm was hypnotic, and sensual. She wanted to get to their room as quickly as possible; she also wanted the walk to last forever. The anticipation had built to an almost-unbearable ache within her, and yet she relished the feeling.

Barba had told her in the cab that Noah and Rosie were both at his apartment with Lucia. There was no real reason why Benson couldn’t take him back to her place, again—and yet, here they were, in a hotel, making their way toward their room. They’d had a lot to drink, but she didn’t feel drunk. Slightly buzzed, perhaps, but not drunk.

He had his arm behind her back, his hand at her waist, holding her close to his side as they walked. He had a bruise darkening beneath his eye, and the front of his shirt was still damp from Chad’s whiskey; she could smell it on him, and she didn’t like it—it contradicted the familiar scent of _him_. She wanted to go back and find that guy, track him down, maybe arrest him.

They stopped outside their door, and he fished the keycard out of his shirt pocket, smiling at her. She knew that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him; the tension had been building for weeks, and they’d been intentionally stoking the flames all night, torturing themselves and each other in the best ways possible.

In spite of his desire, though, there was something in his expression, now—some sort of _unsureness_ that she couldn’t put her finger on, and it gave her pause. He still had the shine of alcohol in his eyes, but his gaze was alert; both of them had sobered considerably since leaving the karaoke bar.

He pushed the door open and pulled her into the room. Her hand slid from his pocket as he turned, backed her gently against the wall, and kissed her before the door had even closed. She wanted to ask him about the doubt in his face, but there was no hesitation in his kiss as he claimed her mouth, no hesitation in his hands as they slid beneath her shirt and heated her skin, and she could almost convince herself she’d imagined it.

Whatever it was, whatever it had been, they could talk about it later. They’d waited too long for this moment, and they deserved it. She was already unbuttoning his shirt, and he moved backward, kicking open the partially-closed bathroom door behind himself, pulling her with him. She felt a shiver of anticipation pass through her as she realized his intentions, and he smiled against her mouth, meeting her eyes.

She shrugged out of her jacket, hanging it on the back of the door. She pushed his shirt off, tugging it down his arms, and then he was stripping hers off, as well. She pulled off her gun and belt, pushing them onto the counter beside the sink. She fumbled with the button of his jeans while he unzipped her trousers, and then they were pushing each other’s pants down at the same time, laughing at the awkward position as their bodies bumped together.

While she kicked off her shoes and pants, he turned on the shower. She could see his erection straining at his boxers, and she stripped off her own undergarments quickly, tossing them aside.

Once he’d gotten the water temperature where he wanted it, Barba toed off his shoes and kicked off his jeans. His gaze raked over her naked body.

“I have to confess something,” she said, and his eyes slid up to hers. “I’m not really a contortionist. I lied.”

He smiled. “I’m not really a poet,” he answered.

“Yes, you are,” she said, and his smile widened. “Does your eye hurt?”

“The sight of you could cure anything.”

She laughed, both flattered and exasperated. “I’m serious.”

He stepped forward, and her chest hitched at the intensity burning in his gaze. “So am I,” he said, and her belly tightened. “I love you.”

She reached out and hooked her fingers into the elastic of his boxers, gently easing them over and past his erection. He shivered, his eyes closing for a moment. And then they were both naked, their bodies pressed together as they fumbled their way into the bathtub. The water hit her back, the heat both comforting and arousing.

“Too hot?” he asked, nuzzling her throat as his hands cupped the backs of her thighs.

“No,” she gasped. “Raf—”

“Tell me what you want.”

She made a sound of frustration that drew a chuckle from him. His hand slipped between her thighs, and his fingers found the most sensitive part of her body, robbing her of her ability to speak. He turned her, and the spray of water was hitting both of them, cascading over and between their bodies, warming and massaging their skin.

She wanted him so badly, she almost came on his hand; she clenched her jaw, tightening her muscles, refusing to give in that easily. He sensed her restraint and laughed again, the sound vibrating through their bodies.

He lifted his head to look at her. “No, huh?” he asked, his voice thick and husky with desire. She slid her hand down and wrapped her fingers around his wet erection, and he leaned—involuntarily—into her hand. “Alright,” he breathed, slanting his mouth over hers as he lifted her leg, pulling her thigh up to his hip. She wrapped her leg around his waist and leaned back against the wall, guiding him with her hand.

He entered her with one hard thrust, pinning her against the slippery wall; the water had made their skin stickier, adding friction, adding suction, and it was unlike anything they’d ever felt before. He moved his hips, but for a moment their bodies were fused together and he drove her against the wall, buried as deeply as possible within her, and then he stopped, panting near her ear, waiting for her body to counteract the friction.

“Rafael.”

“I’m trying, love,” he said with a breathless laugh near her ear. He pulled partway out, her natural lubrication already making it easier. “There you go,” he murmured, holding her as she shivered. She was close—she’d already been close—and after just a few thrusts of his hips, he felt her tightening around him, felt the orgasm shuddering through her body, and he kissed her shoulder as she clung to him.

He withdrew quickly, before he could lose control, and she blinked at him in surprise. “Wait, you didn’t—”

He kissed her, cutting off her objection, and grabbed the bar of soap from the ledge beside her. He ripped the paper off, dropping it into the bathtub, while she watched him. She was standing on both feet again, but her legs were shaky, and she was leaning against the wall for support. She pushed her wet hair back from her face as Barba worked the soap into a lather between his hands.

He started at her shoulders, massaging the soapy suds over her breasts and stomach and hips; the spray of the water rinsed it away as soon as he applied it. Her muscles were quivering beneath his gentle, slippery hands. He slid them between her back and the wall, lathering her backside with lazy circles, dipping his soapy fingers toward the junction between her thighs and smirking at her when she twitched against him.

She reached down and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand up and plucking the bar of soap away from him. She pushed away from the wall, turning him, and he held onto her so they wouldn’t both tumble out of the tub. Then he was leaning against the wall, one hand on her arm to steady her, and his eyelids were at half-mast as she started soaping up his shoulders. He dropped his hands to his sides.

She lathered his chest, blocking the spray of water with her own shoulder so that she had time to work the foam into the springy hair of his chest. His breaths were shallow as she traced her hands down his stomach and back up the ridges of his hips. She looked down at his erection, now swirled with the sudsy runoff from his body.

She worked up a lather of her own, glancing up at his face. His expression was tight, his jaw clenched, and his hands were fisted against the wall by his hips. She watched his face as she slid her soapy hands over and around his manhood, wanting to gauge his reaction. His lips parted and his eyes closed, and he tipped his head back against the wall.

She slid her hand between his legs, keeping her fingers gentle, knowing he was in an extra-sensitive state. She washed him, watching his face the whole time, overwhelmed by how much she loved him—every single thing about him. Every inch of his body, every corner of his mind, every bit of his heart, every speck of his soul.

When she moved her hand to encircle his erection, his eyes opened and he pushed himself upright, once more switching their positions so that she was against the wall. The spray of water whisked away the suds, and he took the half-depleted bar of hotel soap from her slippery fingers. With one hand on her hip, he slid his other hand between her legs, soaping her inner thighs, and higher, slipping his fingers through her warmth. She held onto his shoulders, knowing that she would never think of a shower the same way again—that she would never again wash herself without thinking of _him_.

He set the soap on the ledge, but it slipped off and clattered into the tub. He gently nudged her thighs apart and, cupping his hand under the water, rinsed away the soap, letting his fingers linger and explore until she was making an involuntary sound in her throat.

“What was that?” he murmured. “I couldn’t hear—” She grabbed the wet hair at the back of his head, pulling his mouth to hers. She put her leg around his, taking hold of his erection and guiding him forward, and now he was the one making a strangled sound in his throat, a sound that she swallowed, refusing to let him break away from her kiss.

He pressed his palms against the wall on either side of her head, the muscles in his arms bunching as he braced himself, and he let her join their bodies together. He deepened their kiss as he filled her, and then he let her set the pace, too, matching her movements with his own. As her second climax swelled up within her, she dropped her hand to his shoulder, finally releasing his hair, and he turned his head, breathing raggedly. The water was beating against them, and every inch of his body tingled with stimulation. He was determined not to give in, though, not yet.

“Come for me, Liv,” he said, his lips tickling her ear.

“I am,” she gasped, as her muscles started to quiver.

“Say my name,” he breathed.

“Rafa—” she started, but she couldn’t finish; that was alright, it was enough for him.

He closed his eyes, willing his body under control. _Not yet_ , he thought, but he wasn’t sure he could hold on. She was convulsing around him, her hands digging into his skin. _Wait_ , he told himself, and he managed one more thrust before pulling back abruptly, barely in time. He turned his back to the water, trembling, trying to catch his breath.

“Rafael,” she said.

He turned his head and kissed her, but he caught her wrist when she tried to reach for him. One touch was all it would take. He reached back and flipped the shower knob, killing the water, and their breaths were suddenly loud in their ears. Still holding her wrist, he stepped backward out of the shower, tugging her after him.

Benson looked at his face, and what she was remembering was the expression from the hallway, the inexplicable hint of doubt, or something similar.

He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her shoulders with a flick of his wrists, sliding the soft terrycloth down her back, rubbing gently at her arms, drying her skin.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him, and he looked up at her face as he dried her hips.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, softly. His expression was as gentle as the touch of the towel.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Never,” he breathed, pulling the towel around to dry her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She shivered beneath his ministrations, already more than a little weak-kneed. He tossed the wet towel onto the counter and grabbed another. She watched him quickly and efficiently dry himself, noting that he was careful to avoid touching his erection.

When he pulled her into his arms, however, she could feel it pulsing against her. He kissed her, his taste filling her mouth and confirming that she would never have enough of him; she wanted him again, already. Always.

He fumbled the door open, and the cool air swirled into the steamy bathroom. They made their way, naked, their limbs tangled together, toward the bed, and he broke away from her mouth to yank the covers back. He pushed her onto the bed and, before she realized what he was doing, sank to his knees between hers. He pushed her thighs apart and bent his head, and she let out a sound as she convulsed against his mouth. She was so sensitive it was almost painful, and the gentle flicks of his tongue had her racing toward a third climax.

She thought he was going to take her over the edge, again, without any relief for himself, and she wanted to object but couldn’t form the words. She was relieved when he drew back at the last moment, and she relaxed against the sheet, letting out a shaky breath as she looked up at him.

Without a word, she used her trembling arms and legs to scoot herself further onto the bed, and he followed her, kneeling on the mattress and covering her body with his. She spread her legs for him, drawing one knee up, and he watched her face as he sank into her, filling her slowly and completely.

He’d pushed his self-restraint about as far as it would go, and she could see it in his eyes. He reached between them and found the spot his tongue had been moments before. She arched against him, gasping at how rough the pad of his thumb felt against her sensitized skin, and then—with almost no warning—her third orgasm was crashing over and through her.

He muffled the sound of his own cry against her shoulder, and she felt him come inside her body. She wrapped her legs around him, holding him inside of her, letting his tremors pass through them both.

Finally, when their muscles had calmed and their breathing evened, she released him so that he could roll onto his side next to her. As always, his withdrawal made her feel hollow, but she turned toward him and snuggled against his chest.

“You deserve better,” he murmured against her hair, before kissing her forehead. His arms were tight around her, his heart pounding inside his chest.

“Nothing’s better than this,” she said, and she meant it. She was still worried about his mood, though. She looked at him, searching his face.

“You deserve more,” he said.

“All I want is you,” she answered.

“All I want is _you_ ,” he repeated, softly. “Forever. Liv, I…know things are complicated, and not how we thought we’d get here, maybe, but…And I’m sorry, I promise to do this again—in a tux, on my knee, I’ll do it right, but…marry me?”

“Yes,” she said, without hesitation. She didn’t need to think about it, she didn’t need to take her time. She didn’t need him in a tux on his knee, either, although when that moment came—and she had no doubt that it would, because he didn’t make promises lightly—she would relish the moment and give the same answer.

He let out a breath, and said, “You’re not just feeling sorry for me because I got punched in the face?”

She laughed, watching his face split into a grin. “No. It’s because of the singing, actually. I’ll marry you if you promise to make that a regular thing.”

“Karaoke?” he asked, looking horrified.

“No. Private concerts, only.”

“Deal,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need any help imagining the karaoke scene, I highly recommend you listen to the audio of Raul Esparza singing both "Chanson," from The Baker's Wife, and "Shameless." 
> 
> The John Lennon poem, "I Sat Belonely," was published in his book of poetry, In His Own Write.


	3. Chapter 3

Barba stepped into Benson’s apartment, key in hand, and stopped, surprised to find her standing in front of him.

“I’m glad you got here,” she said, without preamble.

He opened his mouth to ask if something was wrong, read her expression, and laughed instead. “I have less than an hour,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket.

“You have fifteen minutes,” she countered. “Can we make it work?”

He was loosening his tie, and hesitated. “Fifteen minutes?” he asked, with another small laugh. “Until what?”

“Lucy and Noah’ll be here.”

“Are you sure it’ll be—”

“Should be closer to twenty-five, I rounded down to be safe.”

He laughed again. “I’m not sure I can give my best performance—”

She cut him off with a kiss, and then her hands were untucking his shirt beneath his suspenders, her palms were sliding across his stomach, and he had no idea what he’d been about to say. He reached behind himself, fumbling to make sure the door was locked, and she pulled back to look at his face.

“Unless you don’t _want_ —” she started, and it was his turn to silence _her_ with a kiss.

 

*       *       *

 

He was still fully clothed, his pants undone, his erection the only part of him freed. She was on the edge of the bathroom counter, her pants hanging from one ankle, her other leg wrapped around him as he sank into her. She held onto him with one arm, gripping the counter with her other hand; he had one hand at her waist, the other braced against the wall behind her. His breathing was ragged near her ear as he continued to thrust, hard and fast, bringing her quickly to the climax she’d been anticipating all morning.

She said his name, clinging to him, knowing he was almost there, himself.

They heard the apartment door close, and then Noah calling out, “Mommy!”

“Shit,” Barba said, pulling back abruptly. Benson was holding his suspenders for support as she slid to her feet, her eyes wide as they looked at each other. He looked as though he’d been slapped, his expression stunned.

“They must’ve taken a cab,” she breathed, and Barba let out a shaky laugh as she stepped around him, bending to shove her foot into her pants. As she yanked her trousers up, he put his hands on the edge of the counter and leaned forward, hanging his head between his arms. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and she reached for his arm. “I am so sorry—” she started.

“Don’t touch me,” he said. His voice was harsh, but his eyes were not. He looked at her, his expression soft but edged in something close to pain, and gave his head a little shake. “Go,” he told her. “Just go, go.”

“I’ll make this up to you,” she whispered, and he uttered another short, rough laugh. “I love you, I’m sorry, I’ll keep him distracted, finish—” She stopped when he groaned and gave her a look. She checked herself in the mirror, quickly, and slipped out of the bathroom. He locked the door behind her and stood there, hands braced on the counter as he tried to get control of himself.

He heard Lucy leave, and then he could hear Noah chattering excitedly about his morning, and Barba took several deep breaths. He turned on the faucet, hoping Noah wouldn’t hear the running water and figure out that someone was in the bathroom. He splashed cold water onto his face and looked at himself in the mirror. He was going to be in court in an hour.

Shaking his head, he unceremoniously shoved himself back into his boxers and trousers, clenching his jaw to keep his frustrated groan in check. He tucked his shirt flaps into his pants and yanked the zipper up, almost hoping for a bite of pain from the tiny teeth. He could still _feel_ her, clinging to his skin, but any attempts at washing her away would not end well.

He straightened his tie and splashed more water on his face. He looked almost normal, he thought—except for the lines of stress in his face, and the bulge in his pants.

“Walk outside and get a cab like this,” he muttered under his breath, scrubbing his wet hands over his face. He felt shaky, out of sorts—and irritated. But it didn’t matter. He listened for a moment, and heard Benson ushering Noah into his bedroom, telling him that they were going to go through his dresser and pick out the clothes that were too small so that they could give them away.

Barba waited until he was sure they were in the boy’s bedroom, and then he slipped from the bathroom. He glanced toward Noah’s room, where Benson was standing inside the doorway, her hand on the knob. She looked over her shoulder, and her face was full of apology. She glanced downward and he saw her grimace. He shook his head and offered a smile before grabbing his jacket from the table beside the door—he was surprised that Noah hadn’t noticed it and asked why it was there—and slipping it on as he sneaked out of the apartment. He closed the door with a quiet click, and locked it with his key. He glanced up and down the hallway, buttoning his jacket and wishing it were longer.

He cursed the friction of every step as he left.

 

*       *       *

 

_Are you ok?_

_Heading into court_ , he answered, typing as he walked.

_Are you upset?_

_No_

_You sound upset_

He smiled. _You can’t hear me_ , he texted, sliding his briefcase onto the table. He glanced around. _Have to go._

_Ok_

He looked at those two letters, and he felt guilty. Of course, he wasn’t upset with her—but she thought he was. They hadn’t made plans to see each other that night, but he now _had_ to see her; not for sex, but to reassure her that it didn’t matter.

_Ttyl_ he typed, and she didn’t respond; she knew that he was in court, by his abbreviated message, and she didn’t want to bother him. He suppressed a sigh, wishing she were in the room so he could look at her. _God help anyone I cross examine_ he wrote, quickly, knowing it would make her smile. He tucked his phone into his pocket and looked up as the judge entered.

 

*       *       *

 

“I wondered if you actually had a kid,” the driver said, watching Barba buckle Rosie into the car seat.

Scowling at the straps as he tried to adjust them, Barba said, “Why would I pay ten bucks extra to have you show up with a car seat?”

He could practically hear the driver shrug before he answered: “People are weird.”

“People are idiots,” Barba muttered under his breath, still scowling. She was finally secured into the seat, so he turned and sank down beside her, pulling the door closed.

“Don’t have much experience with car seats?” the guy asked as he pulled out into traffic.

Barba clenched his jaw, counted to five, and said, “I don’t have a car, obviously. Also, your straps were twisted.”

“Ah, well, that happens.”

“Papa,” Rosie said, and Barba looked down just in time to see her pull a half-melted candy bar from somewhere inside the car seat. “Chocolate.”

“No, Rosie,” he said automatically, holding out a hand. She frowned at him, and he silently cursed himself for saying _no_ , a word she always seemed to take as a challenge. “Give it here, please,” he said. “It’s yucky.”

“Chocolate,” she countered, scowling.

“Ucky chocolate,” he said, reaching for it. “Give it to Papa.” Her green eyes regarded him for a moment from beneath her bunched, dark brows, and then he saw her expression change. He knew what she was going to do an instant before it happened, and he swiped for the candy as she drew her fist back. “Not Daddy’s suit—” he said, but it was too late. He tried to deflect the missile but she threw it with impressive accuracy, past his hand, over his arm, splatting gooey chocolate onto his white shirt and yellow tie. He let out a breath, closing his eyes as she giggled.

“Kids don’t respect adults anymore, ain’t that a sad truth,” the driver said.

“Thank you,” Barba snapped at him, his temper flaring. “Maybe you should clean—”

“I mean you probably shoulda checked better, kids are always leaving—”

“ _I_ should’ve checked?” Barba asked, and he _knew_ that he should have but that only made him angrier. “If you—” He broke off as Rosie lifted her chocolate-smeared fingers toward her mouth. “No,” he said, reaching for her wrist.

Scowling again, she kicked her feet, and said, “No, no, Papa, no,” before extending her chubby hand and smearing the chocolate across his sleeve. He didn’t even try to stop her; what was the point? “Papa’s suit,” she said.

“Yeah, Papa’s suit is a sticky mess,” Barba muttered. “What else is new? Your daddy’s gone through more suits since you showed up—”

“Discipline ain’t always—”

“She’s two,” Barba cut in before the driver could finish. “Just do me a favor and drive, alright?”

“Papa’s mad,” Rosie said, and Barba looked at her. The anger and mischief had faded from her little face, and she looked worried.

“Papa’s not mad,” he countered softly, even though he certainly _was._ He wasn’t angry with her, though. Pretty much everyone and everything else in the world, yes, but not her. She was too young to understand. “Daddy’s just tired,” he added after a moment.

“I wonder if it’s confusing for her when you switch from Papa to Daddy,” the driver said.

_I wonder if I could shove your head up your ass_ , Barba thought, gritting his teeth. Instead of answering the other man, Barba looked at his daughter and forced a smile. “We’re going to see Aunt Livvie and Noah,” he told her, and saw her face light up. He hadn’t actually told Benson that they were on their way over, and he hoped she was home. It was her day off, and after having Lucy watch Noah in the morning while she went to a couple of appointments—and their ill-fated escapade in the bathroom—she’d been spending the afternoon with her son. They could be at the park, or any number of places, although it was close to suppertime.

“ _Papi_ , I’m hungry,” Rosie said, as though reading his mind. She looked at the remaining smears of chocolate on her fingers, her expression speculative.

“We’ll eat soon, honey. Don’t lick that, it’s icky, trust Daddy, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, as the driver pulled the car up in front of Benson’s building.

Barba unbuckled his daughter, eager to be away from the driver before he lost his temper. He wondered if the man expected a tip and almost laughed. If Benson wasn’t home, he was going to have to get another car—a different car, for the driver’s safety.

Barba carried his daughter into the building and up to Benson’s floor, ignoring the looks cast at his chocolatey suit. As he approached Benson’s door, Rosie cradled in one arm, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He drew it out and saw _Liv_ on the screen, with a picture of Benson, Noah, and Rosie smiling at him. He answered the call, hesitating outside the door.

“Hey, where are you?” she asked, and her voice was soothing to his raw nerves. “Did you get Rosie yet?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to bring her over here for dinner? I’m making spaghetti.”

He smiled. “Right now?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s almost done, but we’ll wait until you get here,” she said.

He set Rosie down and fished out his keys. He unlocked Benson’s door and ushered his daughter inside. “Spaghetti sounds good,” he said, quietly, walking into the apartment. Noah was in his bedroom and Rosie hurried off in that direction without hesitation. Barba was going to call her back to wash her hands, and decided to let it go for the moment. He turned toward the kitchen.

“I can’t wait to see you,” she said into the phone. Her back was to him, the phone propped between her ear and shoulder as she pulled plates from the cupboard. He stopped, not wanting to startle her, and leaned a shoulder against the wall, watching the way her clothes stretched as she reached.

He waited until she’d set the plates down, lowered his phone, and said, “Turns out I couldn’t, either.”

She turned, surprised. He turned his phone off and dropped it into his pocket, watching as she hung hers up and slid it onto the counter. For a few moments, they stood on opposite sides of the room, looking at each other in silence.

With a small smile, she gestured toward his shirt and said, “You’ve had a rough day.”

“My suit’s had a rough day,” he said. He bobbed his head in consideration, and added, “The people who had to talk to me probably had a rough day. How are you?”

His voice dropped into a soft caress for those last three words, and she felt a familiar flush of pleasure. “I’ll feel better when you feel better,” she said.

He straightened away from the wall. “I feel fine,” he answered, moving toward her. She watched his approach, and he saw her lips part in anticipation. He stopped just before her and put his hands on the counter beside her hips. He studied her face, letting out a soft breath. “I don’t want to get chocolate on you,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her lips. “At least, not like this,” he added. “Do you have something I can wear?”

“You want to wear my clothes?” she asked with a smile, lifting an eyebrow, as she tried to keep her mind away from scenarios involving chocolate.

“Desperate times,” he muttered. Neither of them had mentioned leaving clothes at the other’s place; they hadn’t discussed moving in together, and they didn’t need to. They were taking care of the things that needed to be taken care of, and they both knew, without ever having said so aloud, that they would be moving into a new place together—the four of them, a family, someplace where the kids each had a room. They were moving steadily toward that goal in silent unison, taking care of their kids, their careers, their leases, their finances, preparing everything for their future together.

In the meantime, it was _fun_ , sneaking stolen moments together, and they didn’t have to discuss that, either. They understood each other completely.

“I can find you something,” she allowed. Glancing past him to make sure the kids weren’t in earshot, she asked, quietly, “Is the inside of your suit as messy as the outside?”

He grinned, bending his head forward, and murmured near her ear, “It’s you smeared inside my suit, not me.” She shivered at the tickle of his breath.

“You should’ve finished,” she said, her voice low.

“Never without you, Liv,” he breathed.

“I already finished,” she reminded him, and he grinned at her. “Maybe you’ll think twice about being so considerate next time.”

“Not a chance,” he said. “Ninety-five percent of the fun is making you, uh… _finish_.”

“And the other five percent?”

“Next time,” he said. He pushed off the counter, straightening with reluctance. “I know you’ve got a t-shirt somewhere around here that won’t lose me the respect of my daughter. Oh, wait, according to the Uber driver, she already doesn’t respect me.”

Benson frowned. “What? Where’s that jerk, give me his name and I’ll arrest him for something.”

Barba chuckled. “He might be right, I mean, look at me,” he said, gesturing toward his shirt.

“He’s not right,” she countered, putting a hand on his arm. “You and Rosie are still getting used to each other, but you’re not doing anything wrong. Trust me, okay?”

He nodded. “Always.”

“Papa, I’m _hungry_ ,” Rosie said, coming into the kitchen with a scowl.

Barba turned. “I know, _mija_ , luckily Aunt Livvie is more prepared than I am. Let’s go wash your hands.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Barba answered.

Rosie crossed her arms, sticking out her lower lip as she frowned at him.

Noah walked up behind her and said, “Hi, Uncle Rafa.”

“Hello, Noah!” Barba exclaimed, grinning at the boy. “Let’s go wash our hands so we can eat, yes?”

“Okay,” Noah answered, falling into step beside Barba as they headed toward the bathroom. Rosie trailed along behind them. Laughing, Benson went to find something suitable for Barba to wear.

 

*       *       *

 

Noah and Rosie were sitting on pillows on the floor, watching a movie. Rosie, after an extremely messy meal, was wearing an old shirt of Noah’s from their giveaway box.

Her father was still wearing his suit pants, but had on a faded gray t-shirt of Benson’s. He was sitting at one end of the couch, leaned back into the corner with his feet on the floor. Benson was reclined against his chest, her own feet up on the sofa. Her hands were on his forearm, which was wrapped loosely around her.

She could feel herself settling into his heat and knew that they’d have to get up soon or she would fall asleep in his arms. She reminded herself that soon, she wouldn’t have to leave his embrace at bedtime.

“So how’s the new guy, anyway?” Barba asked quietly.

“He’s not you,” she answered.

He breathed a little laugh and said, “Is he being nice to Carisi?”

“Exceptionally. Carisi hates it. Won’t even look at him.”

“Aw, he’s a good guy, give him a chance.”

“We all just miss having you around. How are you getting along with your new detectives? Are they nice to you?”

“Exceptionally. I hate them all,” he said, and she turned her face into his chest as she laughed. He tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’ll take some getting used to, but it’ll be good, I promise,” he said, quietly.

“Given a choice, I think my squad would’ve kept you and made me transfer,” she told him.

“Except Fin,” he said.

She laughed again. “Yes, I can always count on Fin,” she agreed.

He sighed, and she knew what was coming. She tightened her grip on his arm even before he said, “It’s getting late, Liv, we should get going.”

“You can sleep here,” she suggested.

He kissed the top of her head. “We both have an early morning and I don’t have a suit here,” he said.

“I can have Lucy come early, and run you home to shower and change.” At the mention of a shower, she knew they were both thinking the same thing, and his arm suddenly felt heavier. She could sense his hesitation and knew that he desperately wanted to say yes. “Since Noah doesn’t have school, Rosie can stay here with Lucy, if you want, or we can drop her off at your mom’s on our way. You didn’t bring your briefcase home—I mean, here, so you must not have court first thing.”

“No, just an early meeting,” he said. He looked at his watch.

She shifted to sit up, saying, “I’ll give you a ride.”

He tightened his grip on her, holding her against him. “Okay,” he said, and she looked up at his face. “I’ll call my mother if you’re sure Lucy won’t mind.”

“I’m sure,” Benson said, unable to keep the smile from her face.

“And if you don’t mind,” he added, softly, grinning down at her.

“You can take a shower before bed, if you want,” she said. She walked her fingers lightly across his stomach, loving the way his muscles quivered at her touch.

“I’ll wait until morning,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I like the reminder.”

“You can’t still feel—” She broke off, mindful of the little ears that might be listening.

He smiled. “Maybe not, but I know it’s there, and that’s what matters.”

“Next time, you’ll leave me with a reminder, I promise.”

His expression grew serious, and he said, “Liv, please stop worrying about it.”

“Our ninety-five percents are reversed, Rafael,” she answered quietly, and he bent his head to press a kiss against her lips.

“ _Percents_ is not a word, my love,” he murmured against her mouth, smiling.

“On second thought, maybe you should call a car,” she said, and he laughed before kissing her again, quickly.

“My sticky, smelly child needs a bath,” he said.

“Is that what you call—”

“Hey, now,” he interrupted, chuckling. “ _Cuidadoso, mi amor_. _Orejitas_.”

“Your daughter, I was going to say,” she said with exaggerated innocence, and he laughed again. “Fine, I guess we have to get up,” she sighed. “I’ll find some clothes for both of you while you clean her up.”

Barba held her in place. “In a few more minutes,” he said, quietly. She didn’t need persuading; she settled against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart.

 

*       *       *

 

Barba was lying on his side, and Rosie was curled against his chest, breathing evenly. He had one arm bent under his pillow, and the other was curved over his daughter’s small body. On the sheet, Benson’s fingers were intertwined with his, her own arm draped over her son. Noah was facing Rosie and Barba, his arm over his face, sleeping soundly.

When Barba opened his eyes in the dimness, he met Benson’s eyes and saw her lips curve into a smile. Behind her, he could see the glowing face of the alarm clock; it was just after three.

“Not exactly what I had in mind when I asked you to stay,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Oh, you had ulterior motives?” he murmured. “I thought you just wanted my company.”

“Always,” she answered. “Any way I can get it.”

“All the ways,” he said, looking down at their sleeping kids.

“Always and all… _ways_ ,” she responded, and his gaze slid back to hers. “I think I found my wedding vows.”

He ran his thumb over the back of her knuckles, and said, “There won’t be a dry eye in the place.”

“You think?”

“We’ll kill them with our sappiness and adorableness,” he said, and she laughed quietly. “I’ll never be taken seriously again.”

“You know that driver was wrong,” she told him, because she knew that it had bothered him more than he wanted to admit. “Look at her. She trusts you completely. I know you feel guilty about getting a late start, but she knows that you love her, and she feels safe with you. We all do,” she added.

Barba let out a breath, his hand tightening on hers. “I love you, Liv,” he said. “And _this_? All of this, I never knew I wanted, I never dared even _think_ it. This is all I could ever want or need my life to be.”

“I know the feeling,” she said with a smile, looking at the family she’d never expected to have.

 

*       *       *

 

“Will you have time to grab a quick lunch?”

Barba knew she was disappointed that they’d gotten a late start, and there was no time for her to accompany him inside for his shower and dressing. If they started something now, they’d both be late for work—or perhaps not make it to work, at all. That wasn’t an option for either of them.

He leaned over and kissed her. “Sorry,” he answered. “I’ve got something I need to take care of. And you don’t need to pick me up after work, I’ll get a car. I’ve got errands.”

“Sounds mysterious,” she said, with a small smile. Before he could answer, though, she added, “I just want to be alone with you for—”

“Fifteen minutes?” he joked, and to his relief, she laughed.

“An hour, at least,” she said.

“We’re alone right now,” he said, raising an eyebrow and tipping his lips in a smirk.

She slid her hand onto his thigh and felt a rush of pleasure at the way a little breath escaped his lips, the way his pupils widened. “Don’t tempt me,” she told him.

“Careful, Lieutenant,” he murmured. “I have to walk into my building, you know.”

“Into your lonely bathroom and lonelier shower,” she said. “Will you think of me?”

He suppressed a groan. “I always think of you,” he answered.

“In the shower?”

“Everywhere. But especially in the shower.”

“If you want to finish what I started yesterday, just close your eyes and pretend it’s me.”

He bent his head close to hers so that his warm breath tickled her ear, and said, “Olivia, if my hand felt anything like you, I never would’ve made it to law school. The next time I _finish_ , I’ll be inside you where I belong. Think about that every time you shift around in your seat today.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and drew back, grabbing his bag of chocolatey clothes. He was wearing his suit pants and her t-shirt.

“I will,” she said, and he grinned at her as he opened his door. She watched him unfold himself from the seat, and she forced herself to stay in the car.

 

*       *       *

 

“Mr. Barba, is something wrong?”

“No, Lucy, sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. I just wanted to make sure you’d be here,” he answered. He’d texted her to ask if she and the kids were at the apartment, and had told her he was on his way over—he’d also asked her not to tell Liv, and he’d wondered if that would be a problem. He hoped that Lucy had no reason not to trust him, particularly since one of the kids in her charge was his daughter, but he wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d immediately called Benson to ask if it was alright that Barba was coming to the apartment in secret.

She evidently hadn’t done that, and Barba was glad.

“Papa!” Rosie exclaimed, running toward him, and he felt his heart soar as he caught her and swung her up into the air. He never could’ve imagined that he’d have someone so happy to see him—and remembering the way she’d looked at him in the beginning, he couldn’t help but marvel at how far their relationship had come.

“Uncle Rafa!” Noah said, also coming toward him, and Barba corrected himself. _Two_ people happy to see him, what had he ever done to deserve such a blessing? Lucy watched, smiling, as Barba held Rosie in one arm and hugged Noah to his side with the other. “Are you done early?”

“Actually, _mijo_ , I need your help with something.” He looked at Rosie. “Both of you, can you help Daddy out?”

“I’ll help,” Noah answered without hesitation.

Barba ruffled his hair, smiling down at him. “I can always count on you,” he said. There was something in the boy’s face, though—a trace of doubt—and Barba knew the cause. It was part of the reason he’d come to talk to him. Several times the previous night, he’d caught Noah watching him with Rosie, and once the little girl had insisted that she was sleeping in the bed with Benson and Barba—something neither of them tried very hard to refuse—Noah had asked if he could join them. He’d done so with hesitance, an insecurity that wouldn’t have been there if it had just been Noah and his mother.

Before Barba could go ahead with the rest of his plan, he had to address Noah’s concerns.

“I need to talk to you, buddy,” he told the boy, bending to set Rosie on her feet. Before he could ask, Lucy whisked the girl away, quickly distracting her. Barba didn’t know how long the distraction would last, but he was grateful for the nanny’s unquestioning assistance. “Alright, come here, Noah,” Barba said, leading him over to the table. He knew that Lucy would overhear their conversation, and hoped she would keep his secret. He was going to need all the help he could get.

“Did I do something bad?” Noah asked as he climbed onto a chair.

Barba sat down and said, “No, honey. I just have some important things to talk to you about, man to man, alright?”

“Okay.”

“First of all, I need to ask you something. You don’t have to answer right away, but you can think about it while we talk about other stuff. I want to ask you if it’s alright with you if I marry your mom. We both love you very much, Noah, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable. I know it’s been a big change, lately, and when your mom and I get married, things will change even more.

“But here’s one thing that will never change, no matter what else happens. You and me, we’re family, _mijo_. _You_ are my son, and I love you. I know you’ve been worried, or a little confused, and that’s my fault, because I call you _mijo_ and I sometimes say things without thinking, like when I asked if you and Rosie could _help Daddy out_ , and the truth is, Noah, that’s just because I don’t have a lot of experience with kids. Pretty much everything I know about kids, I learned from you, in fact. And you always made it easy on me. You never hesitated to call me Uncle Rafa. I always knew when you were happy to see me. I guess I just assumed that you knew how I felt, but I should’ve known better. Lawyers should never assume,” he added with a smile.

“You don’t have to do anything different, Noah. You can call me Uncle Rafa forever, if you want. Or Rafael. You can call me anything you want—and if I call you something that you don’t like, you can tell me. I promise to respect that.”

“Rosie calls you Papa,” Noah said after moments of speculation.

“Yes. Rosie’s mother, a lot of her friends spoke Spanish, and Rosie heard kids calling their fathers _Papa_ or _Papi_ and it was easier for her to relate to. When she gets older, she might call me Papa or something else.”

“Like Dad?”

“Maybe. Whatever she’s comfortable with.”

Noah was silent for a long time, and Barba waited. He wanted to tell the kid that he didn’t have to be afraid to ask him anything, but he also wanted Noah to come to that realization on his own. Trust should be organic, not requested. Barba knew that Noah trusted him, but Noah needed to figure that out.

“But I could call you Dad,” the boy finally said, in a quiet voice. “If you marry my mom,” he added, looking up at Barba’s face.

“There are no conditions,” Barba answered. He didn’t think Noah would actually say that he didn’t want them to get married, but if that _did_ happen, Barba wasn’t sure how he would proceed. His plans for the day would certainly be derailed, but they would work something out from there.

“I could call you Dad now?” Noah asked, his brow wrinkled as he puzzled through the meaning of Barba’s words.

“If you want to.”

Noah regarded him. “Do you want me to?” he asked, with a directness and astuteness that shouldn’t have surprised Barba.

The man considered hedging, because he didn’t want to put pressure on the boy. He didn’t want his own desires to make Noah feel obligated, but looking at the kid’s face, Barba knew he could be nothing but honest. “Yes, Noah,” he said.

He saw the boy’s body relax. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say so, sooner,” Barba said.

“That’s okay,” Noah answered. “Will you stay here all the time?” he asked. “After you get married?”

“We’ll have to move somewhere else,” Barba said. “We’ll make sure you don’t have to change schools, though, and you and Rosie will each have your own room.”

“Will there still be a park?”

Smiling, Barba said, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“And Lucy can still watch me? I mean…us?”

Glancing over at the nanny, Barba said, “Of course. And sometimes, you and Rosie will stay with my mother. You can call her Grandma, if you want, or we can figure out what works for the two of you.”

“Will Rosie be my sister?” Noah asked, frowning as he tried to reason things through.

“Yes.”

“Okay. When are you getting married?”

“Well, that’s the part I need your help with, buddy. You and Rosie, and Lucy, too, if you’re all willing to help me surprise your mom.”

“She doesn’t like surprises,” Noah answered with confidence.

“Trust me, _mijo_ , she’ll like this one,” Barba said, grinning, and after a moment, Noah smiled in response.

 

*       *       *

 

“Mrs. Barba,” Benson said. “I’m sorry, I should’ve called—are you heading out?”

“It’s Lucia, Lieutenant Benson,” the older woman answered, pulling her apartment door closed. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, I just wanted to talk to you if that’s alright?”

“Of course,” Lucia said, casting her a knowing look. “Walk me out, I have an appointment,” she added, and Benson fell into step beside her.

“Can I give you a ride?”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Lucia said. “So what’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

“Please, call me Liv,” Benson said, fidgeting as she walked. She was uncharacteristically nervous. She hadn’t expected to be so nervous.

“You seem flustered, Lieutenant,” Lucia said, looking at her.

Benson laughed. “Yeah,” she agreed, shaking her head. “Believe it or not, it doesn’t happen often.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Lucia answered. “My boy’s never been attracted to the weak and needy type. He might fall all over himself for the damsel-in-distress type at work, but in his personal life? He never wanted someone looking to be saved.”

_He never thought he was good enough to save anyone_ , Benson thought. He’d told her that he’d wanted to be a hero, his whole life, and that he’d never had any idea how to go about it. Nevertheless: “He did save me, though. He showed me that it was okay to trust someone, to open up—he’s given me the one thing I never thought I’d have. A family. He’s given me a daughter, he’s given my son a father, and I want to be his wife more than I ever would’ve imagined. Me, who never put much stock in weddings or…labels, I want the whole world to know that we belong to each other. I have a feeling that, if I had a parent to ask, he would, no matter how old-fashioned the tradition. But I don’t.”

“So you’re coming to ask me, instead,” Lucia said.

“Yes. I guess I’m doing something I never thought I’d do, and asking for your permission to marry your son.”

“And if I said no?”

Benson hesitated. “I wouldn’t marry him,” she finally answered, honestly.

Lucia scoffed. “Please, nothing could keep my son from marrying you,” she said. “Certainly not a word from his old mother.”

“It’s probably true that he’d insist on doing it anyway,” Benson said. “But I promise you? I would not let him marry me without your blessing.”

“Hmm,” Lucia said. She stopped walking and turned to face Benson. They were almost at the building’s front door. “He came to me for my mother’s ring, you know.”

“Yes,” Benson said. “I mean, no, I didn’t know for sure, but I know that—”

“He’s too sentimental for his own good?” Lucia suggested. “Don’t feel like you have to wear it. He might not be a Rockefeller, but he can certainly afford to trade in a few fancy suits to buy you a proper ring.”

Benson smiled. “I would never want any other ring,” she said, truthfully. “I know how much it means, him offering me his grandmother’s ring. I want you to know that I don’t take—”

“You can stop trying to sell yourself to me, _mija_ ,” Lucia said. “From the first time I saw him utter your name, I knew that you would be the one to save him from himself. I’m just sorry it took him so long to step up.”

“Well, it wasn’t just him,” Benson answered. She was still smiling, but she felt tears burning in her eyes. Just as she hadn’t expected to be so nervous, she was surprised by how emotional Lucia’s support had made her.

“I have to go,” Lucia said, gesturing toward the door.

“Right, of course,” Benson responded with a shake of her head, moving forward to open the door. “I didn’t mean to keep you. Thank you for—”

Lucia put a hand against Benson’s cheek, stopping her, and said, quietly, “Thank _you_ , Liv, for loving my son and granddaughter. Not long ago, my son was the only family I had. Now I’ve added a daughter, a granddaughter, and a grandson.”

Benson swallowed around the lump in her throat, and put a hand on Lucia’s arm. “Our family,” she said.

 

*       *       *

 

“Liv, come out for drinks with us. We’re gonna bash the new guy—but also celebrate the fact that he put that son-of-a-bitch away—”

“Not tonight, Rollins,” Benson said, glancing at her watch. “But it wouldn’t hurt you all to cut him some slack. Barba says he’s a good guy, and he’s won every case we’ve thrown him so far.”

“We just miss Barba, is all,” Rollins said.

“I know,” Benson said, shrugging on her jacket. “I know it wasn’t fair to any of you—”

“Hey, Lieu, we’re happy for the both of you,” Carisi cut in. “The new guy’s not so bad, anyway.”

“Just a few drinks,” Rollins said.

“Raincheck,” Benson answered, casting her a quick smile as she pulled out her phone. She didn’t see the look that the three detectives exchanged. She looked up as Fin approached her.

“Liv,” he said, bending his head toward her. “Come on, as a favor to me. I already said I’d go, don’t leave me alone with them. Five minutes and we can duck out together.”

She opened her mouth to refuse, and hesitated. She really wanted to head home, hug the kids, kiss Barba—Even as she pictured his face, her phone rang in her hand, displaying his smiling photograph. She held up a finger in Fin’s direction as she answered the call.

“Hey, Liv, just wanted to remind you I have some errands to run—and let you know I’ve got the kids with me.”

“You do?” she asked, surprised. “What—”

“I got done early, sent Lucy home. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, but I can drive you—”

“I’ve got a car, we won’t be long. I thought you might want some time alone. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Sure,” she said, hating the disappointment she was feeling. She’d been so eager to get home and see him, and now he wanted her to go back to the empty apartment alone, with nothing to distract herself from missing him? She shook her head and bit back her sigh, not wanting him to worry. “See you soon. Love you.”

“Love you more,” he said, and she smiled as she hung up the phone.

She looked at Fin. “Alright,” she told him. “But when I give you the signal, you’d better help me get out of there.” Louder, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“Forlini’s,” Rollins said.

Benson did sigh, then. She almost refused—again. Of all the places they could pick, Forlini’s was the one that would most remind her of Barba. They’d spent countless hours there, together, as colleagues, as friends, as lovers. “Alright,” she said, thinking, _let’s get this over with._

 

*       *       *

 

Benson saw Carisi and Rollins both look past her just as a sort of hush fell over the room, and she was instantly alert. She looked back over her shoulder and froze for a moment, her heart stumbling to a stop in her chest before kicking into a gallop.

Her eyes found Rosie, first: dressed in a fluffy white gown that was as wide as the girl was tall, her dark hair combed almost into submission—Barba really did need to figure out what he was going to do about his daughter’s hair, how to manage it—she stopped before Benson with a big grin and a bigger bouquet of pink flowers.

Benson was already turning in her chair as her gaze moved to Noah, coming up behind Rosie: dressed in a black tuxedo with a red bow tie, his hair slicked back, his grin was even wider than Rosie’s, and when Benson met her son’s eyes, her own filled with tears. He was carrying a teddy bear with a red plush heart in its paws, the words _I love you_ stitched into the heart in white.

And behind Noah, her gaze landed on Barba, and she couldn’t breathe. Everyone in the bar was watching them, and she didn’t care. She didn’t even notice. In that moment, all she could see was _him._ She gathered the grinning kids to her sides, an arm around each of them, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from Barba’s.

He was dressed in a tux—black bow tie, silk vest and lapels, tailored fit, he never did anything halfway—and his hair was gelled but just a little unruly in the front. As he drew near, with a slow stroll that was mesmerizing, she saw that he hadn’t shaved—and she knew that he’d made the choice deliberately, because she’d mentioned how sexy he was with a bit of graying stubble across his jaw.

He stopped in front of her. His lips quirked into a smirk, but she could see the emotion shining in his eyes. His movements were calm and assured, even cocky, but she could see the nervousness in his face, and it made her smile. She’d already accepted his proposal. He had to know she wasn’t going to turn him down, now, but the insecurity in his face—the doubt that was so smoothly hidden that she knew she was the only one who could see it—touched the spot deep inside her heart that was reserved solely for him, the spot that no one else had ever found.

He cleared his throat. Holding her gaze, he pinched his trousers, pulling the pant-leg up a bit as he sank slowly to his knee. In his other hand, he held up the ring box. He pulled in a breath and opened the box, and then, finally, he spoke—and she was able to draw a breath of her own.

“Olivia Margaret Benson,” he said. He paused, touching the tip of his tongue to his lip as he tried to rein in his emotions. In her arms, the kids were fidgeting—Rosie was crackling the paper around the bouquet, and Noah was almost bouncing with excitement as he looked at Benson for her reaction to the coming proposal—but she had no trouble hearing Barba’s next words. “You are my best friend, my confidant, my touchstone, my _corner_ stone, my partner in both crime and justice,” he said, with a shaky smile when she managed a small laugh. “I will never be your equal but I will strive to be worthy of your love, I will live each day for you and our children, I will be beside you no matter where our lives or careers may take us. Will you do me the greatest honor of my life and marry me?”

She wanted to shout _yes_ without hesitation, but she couldn’t speak. Her throat was thick with emotion, her eyes blurred with tears.

“Shoulda saved some for the wedding vows,” Fin said, and there was quiet laughter in the bar.

Barba smiled at Benson.

“I love you always and all _ways_ ,” she told him, hoarsely, and his smile widened. “Of course I will. Get up, you’re too old to kneel on the floor.”

Barba laughed, rising smoothly to his feet. He reached for her hand, pulling her from her chair to press a kiss against her lips. There was applause around the room, and a few whistles and cheers, but Benson barely noticed. Barba slid his grandmother’s ring onto her finger, and she realized that he’d already had it resized. It was the most beautiful ring she’d ever seen, because it symbolized his heart.

Rosie tugged on her pant-leg and held up the flowers. “Pretty, Aunt Livvie,” she said.

“Thank you, honey,” Benson said, taking the bouquet and tucking the girl’s hair behind her ear.

Noah held up the bear. “Me and…Dad picked this out together,” he said, and her heart skipped as her gaze slid up to Barba’s. Her fiancé offered her another smile. “It’s from all of us,” Noah added, running a finger over the white lettering.

“Thank you,” she said, bending down to kiss his forehead.

“And I told him he could marry you. He asked me.”

“He did? And you said yes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m glad.”

“And Aunt Amanda and Uncle Sonny are taking us to a movie, with Jesse,” Noah added, looking excited.

“Are they?” Benson said, her gaze once more going to Barba’s before she turned to look at her detectives. “Taking two toddlers to a movie theater?” she asked. “That’s brave. What were you going to do if I refused to come here?”

“Liv,” Fin said. “We have handcuffs, and we _were_ prepared to use them. Luckily it didn’t come to that,” he added, as she laughed, shaking her head.

“Thank you,” she told him. Fin was her oldest friend, the only person who’d been in the Manhattan SVU almost as long as she had. They’d seen each other at their highest, and their lowest.

“Congratulations, Liv,” he said, quietly. “You deserve it.” He looked at Barba. “But if you hurt her, no one will ever find your body.”

“Noted,” Barba answered. He handed the bartender several folded bills, and told the room, “Drinks on me! Celebrate!” As more applause greeted these words, he turned back toward Benson and once more reached for her hand. “Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, smiling down at the kids. “See you soon, my loves, be good. Thank you for the beautiful presents,” she added.

“Mine?” Rosie asked, pinching at the paper of the bouquet.

“Sure,” Benson said, returning the flowers and shooting Rollins an apologetic look. Rollins shrugged and smiled. “And you hold this for me, honey, okay?” she asked Noah, and he nodded, hugging the bear to his chest. “You guys are gonna be the best dressed people there. Everyone will be jealous.” Barba’s fingers were warm around hers, and when he tugged gently, she went to his side without resistance. She met his kiss halfway, her heart thudding in her chest. They’d already been engaged, but now it was _official_. She hadn’t thought it would feel different, but it did.

They walked outside, hand in hand, and she stopped at the sight of the limousine waiting on the street.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“My place,” he said. “Rollins is taking the kids back to your place when they’re done.”

Grinning, she said, “Look who’s afraid of being interrupted again.”

“I’d take you back to our cabin if we didn’t both have to work in the morning. I’m sorry I didn’t—”

She kissed him to stop his apology, and pressed her palm against his cheek. “You asked my son for permission to marry me?” she asked, studying his face.

“Sort of,” he said, shifting.

“That’s so…”

“Archaic?” he asked. He raised his eyebrows. “Misogynistic?” he suggested, with a small smile.

“Sweet,” she corrected. “I went to see your mother, today. She gives her blessing, too.” She saw the emotion flit across his features, saw the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Before he could answer, she said, “Now let’s make out in the back of this limo.”

“God, yes,” he breathed. “I’ve been thinking about nothing else for _hours_.”

She laughed, letting him pull her toward the car. The driver saw them coming and met them at the back door, pulling it open so they could duck inside. As soon as the door was closed, Barba had her pressed into the seat, his body covering hers, his mouth claiming hers, his fingers intertwined with hers.

“Does he know where to go?” she asked, breathlessly, when he released her mouth to trail kisses along her jaw.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Do you know where to go?” she asked.

“I think I remember,” he said, one hand sliding up her inner thigh.

She gasped. “I hope he drives fast,” she said.

“I hope he drives slow,” he countered, lifting his head to grin down at her.

“You can borrow my jacket,” she told him. “When we get to your building.”

“I’m sure everyone’s used to it by now,” he said, chuckling.

She cupped his crotch in her hand, and he groaned, his eyes closing. “How could anyone get used to this?” she asked. “I’m still impressed by it every time.”

He laughed, opening his eyes. “Yeah? Take it, it’s yours.”

“Oh, I will,” she promised. “Uh-oh, you’re not going to finish early, are you?”

“I told you, never without you,” he said, but she could hear the strain in his voice. “But to be honest, I don’t know how much— _Ahh_ ,” he said, dropping his forehead onto her shoulder, his breathing suddenly ragged. “Are you trying to kill me?” he muttered.

She pressed her lips against his ear, and he shivered as she whispered, “If you come in your pants, no one will ever know but us.”

“And the drycleaner,” he hissed through his teeth as she moved her hand.

“Would it matter if I said I want you to?”

“Yes,” he gasped.

“Because I really, really do,” she added.

“Fuck,” he said in a low voice.

“Even if he opens the partition, we’re both fully clothed,” Benson said.

“Liv.”

“I promise I’ll clean you up when we get inside.”

He jerked against her hand, and he was holding onto her for dear life, now.

“Let me see your face,” she said, and he lifted his head, looking down at her in the pulsing lights of the passing city, his gaze hooded. “Are you close?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. “Already?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he answered. When she flexed her fingers, his eyelids dropped, but he quickly forced them up, catching her gaze.

“Come for me,” she whispered.

“Yes, Liv,” he breathed. “Always.”


	4. Chapter 4

“If you laugh at me, I swear the wedding’s off.”

Benson stood inside the bedroom door, staring at the scene in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “How the hell did you let this happen?” she asked.

Barba glared at her, but his cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. “How about you just uncuff me?” he said. He was on the far side of the bed, one wrist handcuffed to the headboard and an ankle cuffed to the footboard. He was wearing his tuxedo, complete with bowtie, but no shoes or socks. He held his free hand toward Benson, palm up, and flapped his fingers like a toddler asking for a cookie.

Benson didn’t move; she was doing her best to keep her expression composed, but he could see the amusement sparkling in her dark eyes, and it didn’t improve his mood. His scowl should’ve been intimidating, but she knew him too well. She found his mixture of embarrassment and annoyance adorable.

“I’m glad you think this is funny,” he said. “I didn’t text you so you could—”

“That must’ve been frustrating,” she interrupted. She paused, raising her brows. “Typing one-handed,” she elucidated, and he made a sound like a growl in his throat.

“Come over where I can reach you,” he said. “Maybe if I—” He broke off abruptly when Noah walked into the room, followed closely by Rosie. Benson saw the irritation disappear from Barba’s face in an instant, and she felt a rush of overwhelming love for him.

“Sorry, Rafa,” Noah said, sounding dejected. He stood beside his mother, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, keeping his eyes downcast.

“Sorry,” Rosie echoed after a moment, though she seemed less sure of her apology. The sight of her father handcuffed to the bed had brought a smile to her face, but she was also frowning—trying her best to mimic Noah’s mood of contrition.

“Hey, _mijo_ , it’s alright,” Barba said. Noah had taken to calling him _Dad_ , and Barba didn’t like the return to _Rafa_ —not when it was done because Noah thought Barba was angry with him.

“You’re mad,” Noah said without looking at him. “It wasn’t Rosie’s fault, it was mine. I got Mommy’s handcuffs out.”

“You know you’re not supposed to play with those,” Benson said, but her admonishment was soft. Noah looked like he was close to tears, already.

“Noah,” Barba said. He shifted, his jaw clenching in frustration when the cuffs jangled. “Come here.” Noah looked up at him, unsure, and Barba motioned with his hand. “Come, son,” he said, and Noah crawled up onto the bed. Barba curved his arm around him and pulled him closer. “Your _dad_ should’ve paid closer attention,” he told the boy. “It’s not your fault, you were just playing. I’m not angry with you, _mijo_.”

“You said you wouldn’t get married,” Noah said, his lower lip trembling.

Barba’s stomach clenched, and he cursed himself a dozen times over. “Just a bad joke, honey. Your mom and I are getting married today, I promise. As soon as she unlocks me,” he added, shooting Benson a dirty look. “In fact, you should start getting ready,” he said. With his arm around Noah, he tickled his rib cage, and the boy squirmed, giggling. “Right?”

“Okay,” Noah said, laughing.

Barba tickled him some more, and said, “What was that?”

Giggling louder than ever, wiggling against Barba’s arm, Noah said, “Okay, Daddy, okay.” He was laughing when he said, “Stop, Dad,” but Barba quit tickling him and lifted his hand to ruffle the boy’s hair.

After a moment, Noah reached out both hands and tickled Barba’s side, grinning. “Hey, no fair!” Barba objected. “Rosie,” he called. “Come help Papa.”

Rosie climbed onto the bed with a little assistance from Benson, and crawled up beside Noah. “I help,” she said, and promptly began tickling Barba’s stomach.

Laughing, Barba said, “Okay, okay, mercy.”

Noah stopped tickling him, but Rosie continued until Noah put a hand on her arm. “No more, Ro-ro,” he said, using the nickname he’d recently adopted. “Mercy means stop.”

Barba scooped both kids into a one-armed hug, kissing each of their heads. “Go make sure your clothes are ready, we’ll come help in a few minutes,” he said, watching as the kids scrambled to the edge of the bed and onto the floor. They raced from the room, and he could hear Rosie’s giggles as she tried to keep up with Noah.

Benson turned and pushed the door closed. When she looked back at Barba, he was frowning again, but it was only for show, now. She walked around to his side of the bed, holding his gaze.

“Did you really threaten to call off our wedding?” she asked, arching one eyebrow at him.

“It’s off,” he said, but his lips quirked in a smile.

“Too late, you promised Noah.”

“Damn it,” he said. “Fine, but the honeymoon’s off.”

“Really.”

“Yep. You messed this up for yourself, babe,” he answered.

“Hmm,” she said. She put her knee on the edge of the bed and swung her other leg over him, straddling his waist. He grunted, his hand going to her hip. “I suppose it’s my fault that you let them cuff you to the bed?”

“I thought they were his toy cuffs.”

“Those are plastic,” she said. “But you were on your phone, weren’t you?”

“I was checking us in for our flight,” he answered. He was trying to maintain his scowl, and failing miserably. She could feel his growing arousal, and she pressed against him, smiling at his sharp intake of breath.

“Wasted effort, now that the honeymoon’s off, I guess,” she said.

“I suppose we might as well go, since the tickets are paid for…” he answered.

Benson had never been inclined to use handcuffs, or even experiment with them, in a romantic way. She didn’t begrudge people who used them for consensual sex, but because of her job, she’d never seen any appeal. Now, however, there was something undeniably attractive about her soon-to-be-husband, a man who could usually command every room he entered, being tethered and adorably frustrated.

Barba saw the speculative look in her eyes, and his hand slid down to her thigh. He shifted his hips beneath her.

“Don’t make a mess in your tux,” she warned. “Once was bad enough. We’ll have to find a new drycleaner.”

He grinned.

She reached down and grabbed his wrist. She leaned forward, lifting his arm over his head and pinning it gently against the headboard. Her face was inches from his, and she was leaning into his erection. His breath fanned her face as their gazes held.

“Mercy,” he breathed softly, and she bent her head forward to kiss him. His mouth opened, and she released his wrist, letting him slide his hand to her lower back.

After a moment, she pulled back with a sigh and levered herself off him to stand on the floor. “You know I’m not going to have time to get everything done, now,” she said, pulling out her handcuff keys. “I already had to ask Rollins to pick up the cake so I could come rescue your ungrateful behind.”

“If they want to eat our cake and drink our booze, they can pull their weight,” he said.

“I’ll be sure to pass along your—” She stopped, frowning. “Rafael,” she said, quickly unlocking the handcuff from his wrist. “Why didn’t you tell me this was so tight?”

He glanced at his wrist, now held loosely in her hand, and saw the red ring dented into his skin. He winced and shrugged a shoulder. “I had more important things to think about,” he said, turning his hand over in hers and tugging her forward. He leaned up to kiss her, but she hesitated, looking at his face. “Liv, it’s fine,” he assured her. “Look at me. I promise, alright?”

She bit her lip and nodded, but he could see the guilt in her eyes.

“If you kiss me, we can go ahead with the whole marriage thing,” he said, his tone cajoling.

She pulled his hand up and kissed the reddened skin on the inside of his wrist. He pouted, earning a small laugh as she let go and moved to uncuff his ankle. There was a red, chafed ring there, as well, and she bent down to kiss the irritated skin.

When she straightened, she looked at him and said, “Sorry, Raf.”

“We won’t close ‘em so tightly, next time,” he answered.

Their gazes held, and he offered a smile. She could see the desire shining in his eyes as clearly as the arousal straining against his trousers. She walked forward and kissed his lips, letting her mouth linger against his.

“You look good in this tux, Barba,” she murmured, patting his chest. “You got dressed awfully early, though.”

“What can I say? I’m anxious to be married to you, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, so the wedding _isn’t_ cancelled, then?”

“How could you joke about such a thing?” he asked, looking horrified. When she smiled, he said, “The kids already ate, we just need to wrangle them into their outfits and keep Rosie from rolling around in the dirt in her white dress. Piece of cake, right?”

“Alright, well I’ll go get started with the wrangling and I’ll ask Fin to pick up Rosie’s flowers. He’ll love that,” she added with a wink.

Barba lifted his chin, and she kissed him again, ruffling his hair a bit with her fingertips. “I’ll be out as soon as I get my…uh…situation under control,” he said with a smile.

She nodded and walked around the bed to open the door. There was an immediate thudding of tiny feet hurrying toward the bedroom, and Barba heard Rosie yelling, “Papa? Papa?”

Benson slipped outside and quickly pulled the door closed behind herself, saying, “Papa’s going to be out in a few minutes, love. Let’s go check on your dress, okay?”

 

*       *       *

 

Watching Rosie carry her flowers up the short aisle brought a lump of emotion to Barba’s throat, and he smiled at his daughter. She was supposed to join Rollins and Jesse in the front row, but instead she made a break for it and ran up to him, grinning as he swung her up for a quick hug.

He kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear, “Go sit with Auntie Amanda, _mi corazón_. You need to save a seat _para_ _tu hermano_.”

She grinned and planted a wet, sloppy kiss onto his cheek, bringing a titter of laughter from the small assemblage of guests. Barba set her down and she made her way toward Rollins, swinging her bouquet. He met his mother’s eyes for a moment, and the sight of her tears was almost his undoing. He offered her a smile, determined to get control of himself.

That determination flew out the window the moment he saw Benson at the back of the small church. He felt as though the breath had been knocked from his lungs, and his heart stumbled in his chest. He stared in disbelief, scarcely able to comprehend that _she_ had agreed to marry _him_.

She was nervous when she started her walk, even though the fifteen guests were their closest friends and family. She was fidgeting with her bouquet, self-conscious, unaware of how breathtakingly beautiful she was, and she glanced around at their friends.

When she looked up at Barba, however, their gazes locked, and he saw her draw a steadying breath. His eyes were shimmering with tears, and the sight of his emotion brought tears to her eyes. She smiled at him, and he thought his heart might actually explode inside his chest.

There was no falter in her steps, no sign of insecurity, as she crossed the remaining distance between them. It took all of his willpower to keep from pulling her into his arms, but he held out a hand, unable to resist touching her. She wrapped her fingers around his, still smiling, and he found himself grinning like an idiot in spite of the tears pooled in his eyes.

They both turned their heads toward Noah. They’d decided to buck tradition and have him come down the aisle last, carrying the rings, rather than preceding his mother. His delivery of the rings was symbolic, and they wanted him to realize his importance; his parents were at the altar, ready to officially pledge their lives to each other, but they couldn’t proceed until he brought them their rings.

Noah didn’t fully understand the significance of their decision, but he was grinning broadly, barely able to contain his excitement as he walked toward them. At the sight of the boy’s pride and happiness, Barba felt Benson’s hand tighten, and he squeezed hers in return.

When Noah reached them, Barba scooped him up in a hug and held him toward Benson so she could press a kiss to her son’s forehead.

“Thank you, _mijo_ ,” Barba said, setting Noah down and taking the ring pillow from him. “Can you do me a favor and go sit with _abuelita_ , she needs a hug.”

Still grinning, Noah hurried over to Lucia Barba and let her pull him into a tight embrace.

Barba turned his attention to Benson, holding up the rings. “You still wanna do this, or what?” he asked, and she smiled.

 

*       *       *

 

 _You may kiss the bride_. The phrase might be a bit misogynistic, but Barba was glad that Benson had insisted on keeping it in their short, customized ceremony. He hadn’t realized what the words would do to him, but it was an hour later and he was convinced that he would never fully recover.

 _You may kiss the bride_. Looking at her, their eyes swimming with tears, knowing that she—Olivia Benson—was his _wife_. Knowing that their hearts were beating in unison. Feeling the support of their friends and family. Stepping forward to press his lips against hers…

Now, they’d spent an obligatory hour mingling with their guests, but a quick glance at his watch told Barba that they were going to have to head out soon. He looked across the room, where Benson was talking to his mother. She felt his gaze, and looked up, meeting his eyes. He raised his eyebrows, and she nodded, smiling and putting her hand on Lucia’s arm as she bent to kiss the older woman’s cheek.

“Papa!” Rosie called, running up to Barba, and he turned his attention to his daughter.

“Yes, _mija_?” he asked, filling his voice with a matching level of excitement.

“I can have two cakes,” she proclaimed, holding up three fingers.

“Hmm,” he said, considering. He glanced up at Rollins, who was coming up behind the girl with Jesse and Noah at her sides. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason why Aunt Amanda can’t let you have another piece of cake, since _abuelita_ will be the one dealing with the aftermath,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement when he met Rollins’s look.

“See?” Rosie asked, turning to Rollins with a scowl. “Papa says—”

“Hold up, little love,” Barba said, snatching his daughter up. She gasped and giggled, kicking her feet as he briefly tickled her. “Don’t be rude. Say you’re sorry and you listen to Rollins and _tu abuela_ or there will be no more cake, ever,” he said, pressing a kiss against his daughter’s cheek.

She laughed, but said, “Sorry!”

Benson and Lucia had finally made their way through the crowd, and Rosie, catching sight of Benson, reached toward her and lunged.

“Don’t get Liv’s dress dirty,” Barba said, but he was laughing as he handed his daughter over.

Benson hugged Rosie and, looking over the girl’s head, said, “That’s okay, I won’t need it again.”

He grinned and turned to his mother, who promptly grabbed him and pulled him into an embrace so tight that he couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t screw this up, _hijo_ ,” she said.

Barba laughed, blinking back his tears as he hugged his mother. She pulled back, patting his cheek. “She knows better than anyone how annoying I am and she still married me,” he said, shooting Benson a quick smile.

“Well, we won’t hold that against her,” Lucia said, winking at him. She turned and took Rosie from Benson’s arms.

Benson tugged at her gown and lowered herself into a crouch before Noah. “You be good for Grandma Lucia while we’re gone, alright, honey?” she said, brushing his curls from his forehead. “We’ll be back in five days. I’ll call you every day.”

“Okay,” Noah said, trying not to look sad.

Barba lowered himself to his knees beside his wife, and put a palm against the boy’s chest. “Thank you for all your help today, Noah,” he said. “I couldn’t have done it without you. I know you’re upset you can’t come with us.” He bent his head forward, cupped his hand up, and whispered into Noah’s ear. The boy’s expression instantly brightened, and a grin spread across his face. Barba drew back and smiled. “See you in a few days, Noah, my son,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“Come _mi nietos_ , let’s go have more cake,” Lucia said, taking Noah’s hand.

Barba pushed to his feet with a wince and took Benson’s arm as she stood.

“You kids have fun,” Rollins said, winking at Barba before following Lucia with Jesse in tow.

“What did you tell our son, Barba?” Benson asked as she shot him a suspicious look.

“Oh,” he answered. He shrugged, offering a sheepish smile. “I might’ve promised we’d go to Disneyworld for his birthday.”

“You _promised_?” she asked.

He took hold of her hips and tugged her forward to kiss her. “We need to go,” he said. “We’re going to be late.”

“Good thing you already checked us in,” she answered.

He chuckled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “As much as I’d like to take this dress off you when we get to our room, I don’t think you want to wear it on the plane, _mi cielito_ ,” he said. “Our bags are in the car. Let’s get changed and…go be _married_.”

“I’ll make sure the dress makes it back to our apartment,” she told him with a wink. “ _Para mi esposo_ ,” she added.

He let out a breath, shaking his head in amazement. “My wife,” he muttered, staring at her.

“Alright, alright, don’t cry again,” she said, laughing as she placed a quick kiss on his nose. Her eyes were bright as she looked at him. “Let’s get this honeymoon thing started.”

 

*       *       *

 

They dozed a bit on the plane, with Benson’s head on Barba’s shoulder and his cheek against her hair, but they were tired when they finally got to their hotel. They were both in slacks and t-shirts for the trip, and they were sweaty and sticky and hungry by the time they dropped their luggage in their air-conditioned room. Normally, they would both be cranky, but neither could manage anything other than a tired sort of happiness.

Benson kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief and sank onto the foot of the bed. “Where’s the room service menu?” she asked. “I’m starving.” Barba toed off his shoes, glancing around the room. He walked over to the table and got the menu, looking it over. Benson flopped back onto the bed and said, “I might be too tired to eat, though.”

He carried the menu to the bed and sat beside her. “I’ll just order one of everything,” he said. He glanced over at her and sank onto his back at her side. Holding the menu above their faces, he added, “Although maybe we should stick with whatever will be quickest to prepare and least likely to spoil when we fall asleep in the middle of it.”

Laughing quietly, she snatched the menu from his hands and tossed it over the side of the bed, turning her head to look at him. “Can you make out with me for a while?”

“Are you going to fall asleep while I do? Because I’m not sure my ego can stand the blow, today,” he joked, his eyes twinkling as he smiled at her.

“Aw,” she said, pulling his wrist up so she could run her thumb, lightly, over the faded red mark. “You did have a very embarrassing morning, didn’t you?” she asked, sounding amused.

He rolled over on top of her, bracing himself on his elbows and grinning when she made a small _oof_ sound. “Luckily you were there to offer your sympathy,” he said.

“Didn’t I ask you to make out with me? If you’re going to be this bad at following directions, I’ll have to divorce you.”

He ducked his head and kissed her before grazing his lips down to her neck. “I’m all sweaty,” he murmured against the side of her throat.

“You stink,” she agreed. “Make out with me anyway.”

“I don’t stink,” he muttered, sliding a hand under her shirt. She shifted her legs beneath him, and he moved his hips so that his growing arousal was nestled against her. “You should give me a bath to make up for this morning.”

“I have something to make up for?” she asked, feigning offense. “I made a valiant effort not to laugh at you, don’t I get any credit?” She shifted again, pressing her breast more firmly into his palm. “Though a hot bath does sound pretty good…”

He flexed his hips, pushing himself against her, and she made a sound, grabbing his shoulders. “Just let me rub my sweat onto you for awhile,” he said.

She laughed. “I stink, too,” she said. “Let’s just go for it. We can take a bath later.”

“Just go for it?” he asked, his voice cracking with amusement as he lifted his head to look at her.

“We’re married, now, and I’m tired. Come on. Stick it in, big boy, I’m waiting.”

He dropped his forehead onto her shoulder as his body shook with laughter. He wheezed, tears leaking from his eyes. She was laughing, too, but she slipped her hands between their bodies to unfasten his pants. “Oh my God, Olivia,” he laughed. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

“Enough to marry me, I guess,” she said. “Why am I doing all the work, here?” she asked. “I _told_ you I was tired.”

He pulled his hand from beneath her shirt, levered himself up a bit, and quickly unbuttoned and unzipped their trousers. He slid his hand into her pants, and she shifted her legs apart.

“God, you really _are_ ready,” he said, surprised.

“I’ve been this way _all day_ ,” she answered, pushing herself against his fingers. “I need you to do something about it.”

He ducked his head and covered her mouth with his, kissing her while he slipped his fingers into her wetness. She moaned, arching against him, frustrated by the restriction of their pants. He pulled his hand free and she made a sound of objection. He tugged her trousers and underwear over her hips and down her thighs, and rolled to his side so she could bend her knees up and kick the clothing off while he shucked his own. Then he covered her body with his, again, not bothering to remove their shirts.

He lowered his head until his lips were tickling her ear, and murmured, “You know you married me today?”

“I remember,” she said, her fingers digging into his back, “Finally,” she sighed as he entered her, slowly. “You feel so good—you don’t even have to move. We can just sleep like this.”

He chuckled, nuzzling her neck as he moved his hips.

“ _Ah_ , I changed my mind,” she said, and he laughed again. “Keep doing that.”

“ _Como quieras, mi amor_ ,” he murmured against her skin.

He was still moving slowly, sheathing himself fully in her silkiness before withdrawing, repeating the motion until her body was trembling beneath him and his muscles were quivering from the strain of the languid pace he’d set. He knew that she was desperate for relief, but she didn’t ask him to hurry. He was desperate, too. Their need for release had built into a sweet torture that they both wanted to savor. This was their first time as husband and wife, and while neither of them would’ve guessed that the knowledge would hit them so profoundly, they couldn’t deny the weight of significance that had settled over them.

He could end the moment with a couple of quick thrusts, but he didn’t. When she made a small sound, close to a whimper, his lowered his hand and slid his thumb over her clit, drawing another sound—louder, this time—from her throat.

“Raf,” she said, clinging to him.

“Liv,” he answered. He massaged her with his thumb, but he was moving his hips with excruciating slowness. He could feel her tightening around him, could feel as her orgasm began to ripple through her, and still he moved slowly, drawing it out until she was writhing beneath him. Her climax broke through her in waves, and she was beyond rational thought. He knew that she’d given herself up to him entirely, and he had complete control over her body. Finally, after what felt like forever, he withdrew his hand. He captured her mouth in a breathless kiss, and as he felt her shudders lessening, only then did he allow himself release. He sank into her fully, trembling as he came within her.

He dropped onto her, pressing her into the mattress as he struggled to catch his breath, and she wrapped her arms and legs around his body, holding him.

“I love you,” he managed. She was unable to speak, so she held onto him as tightly as she could. He shivered in her embrace. “I love you,” he repeated, barely audible.

 

*       *       *

 

The bathtub was round, built for two, with Jacuzzi jets, and the hotel had provided jasmine-scented bubble bath. Barba and Benson sat facing each other in the warm water, only their heads and shoulders and knees visible above the mounds of bubbles. Her thighs were between his, her feet at his hips. His feet were at _her_ hips. They had the jets on the lowest setting, just enough to mix the bubble bath and give the water a slippery feel.

Beneath the bubbles, Benson was stroking his erection in a loose fist, slowly. He had three fingers inside of her, and he matched her pace. They couldn’t see what they were doing, and they couldn’t kiss; that made their eye contact feel all the more intimate and intense. Watching his wife’s face, knowing she was drawing close, brought Barba to his climax more quickly than he’d planned, and he lifted his hips, pushing himself into her tightening hand. The water rippled up almost to the edges of the tub.

He fought the urge to close his eyes, keeping his heavy gaze on hers, and increased the tempo and pressure of his fingers, watching her face as she came apart beneath his ministrations.

“Feeling cleaner yet?” he asked with a smile when they’d both relaxed back into the bubbly water.

She ran her hand up his thigh, relishing his shiver. “Let’s give it another hour or so,” she suggested, laying her head back against the tub while keeping her eyes on his face. They’d eaten, and they’d rested; it was now after midnight, and he supposed that meant that their first full day as a married couple had begun.

 

*       *       *

 

“I think that’s enough lotion, Barba,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, continuing to massage the oil onto her back. “I wouldn’t want you to burn.”

“Are you going to let me put any on you? And don’t give me that ‘Cubans don’t burn’ line again.”

He grinned. “Liv, I would _love_ for you to slather me in lotion, but I wouldn’t be able to stay and enjoy the beach. At least not without going to stand in the ocean for a few minutes.”

She laughed, leaning back with her face turned so he could kiss her mouth. She was stripped down to a bikini; he was wearing shorts and a lightweight, white, button-up t-shirt. The beach wasn’t crowded, and they had a little bit of privacy. A little bit, but not enough for him to strip off his shirt—he needed its length for discretion, since he seemed unable to keep his body from responding to the sight of hers.

She patted him on the shoulder and shifted, rolling over onto her stomach on the towel. “Get yourself under control or it’s gonna be an awkward walk on the boardwalk,” she said, resting her cheek on her arms and smiling at him. “I have a surprise for you when we get back to the room, but I expect to be wined and dined, first.”

“Well, it just so happens that we have a reservation at _the_ best restaurant in town…that doesn’t have a dress code.” He grinned when she laughed, and added, “The fancy dinner is tomorrow night. I didn’t think we’d want to wear anything too constricting today…”

“Good thinking. I can see why Harvard was chomping at the bit to get you.”

He rolled onto his stomach with a grimace and copied her pose, cheek on his forearms, facing her. “Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, earning a smile. “I’m not as smart as I act. The smartest thing I’ve ever done was a complete accident.”

“What was that?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

“Falling in love with you,” he said.

“You’re such a sap,” she told him, reaching out to take his hand. “What would people think if they could see this side of you?”

He smirked. “I imagine they’d think how lucky you are,” he said.

She laughed. “Again with the Harvard smarts.”

 

*       *       *

 

She wore a gauzy, flowy skirt and a loose blouse over her bikini, and she walked barefoot, holding his hand. Barba was in sandals, and he carried hers looped over his fingers.

They ate outside on the restaurant’s terrace, where they could watch the sun set behind the ocean. Benson sat with her bare feet in Barba’s lap. They were relaxed, comfortable with each other as the sun went down and the breeze grew cooler. Before leaving the restaurant, they called Barba’s mother and spoke to the kids, wishing them pleasant dreams and promising to bring back presents.

As they walked back to the hotel, with their arms around each other, Barba found himself wishing that they could stretch every moment into an eternity.

 

*       *       *

 

“How did you…” he asked, staring at her.

“I had Rollins run an extra errand. And we don’t ever have to mention that again.”

He snorted. “What do you think the odds are she won’t bring it up the moment she sees me?”

Benson grinned. “You’re probably right. And your blush will be adorable but hopefully I won’t be around to see it.” She held the package higher, and he could see the doubt in her eyes. “I said I didn’t want them to look or feel like real cuffs, because…you know,” she said, and he nodded. “So apparently…” She cast a dubious look at the package. “Pink and fuzzy…”

He didn’t answer. He was having difficulty breathing, but he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression.

“And I wasn’t sure about the bed, but it actually looks like it was designed for…restraints, I mean like the bathtub, the place is definitely set up for…” She trailed off, studying his expression. “You know I wouldn’t want—I mean, yesterday, it seemed like—”

He moved forward, lifting his hands to her face and slanting his mouth over hers. He knew why she was worried, but he didn’t want her to doubt herself for an instant. There had been a moment, the morning before, a moment when they’d both realized that there was something _exciting_ about him being restrained while she straddled him. It had happened by accident, but it _had_ happened, and she’d taken it upon herself to plan a sexier, intentional foray.

He pulled back to look at her, still cupping her cheeks with his palms. “I trust you completely, Liv,” he said. “ _Completely_. You can do with me as you wish.”

“But do you _want_ —”

“Yes,” he said. “With you, yes. I want to do anything and everything with you.”

She smiled. “I don’t know about _everything_ ,” she said.

He pressed a quick kiss on her lips. “Everything you want to do,” he amended. “And you’re right about the bed, although I really don’t want to think about how many people have been in this room before us…”

“We’ll strip it down to the sheets. Who knows how often they wash the blankets.” He lowered his hands to her shoulders, and she looked down at his shorts. “You really are excited,” she remarked.

“Hell, Liv, I’ve been this way _all day_ ,” he said, returning her words from the night before.

“Well, don’t think you’re getting off easily,” she told him, and he grinned.

 

*       *       *

 

She’d never been comfortable performing oral sex in previous relationships, and had only tried it a few times. There was a vulnerability in the act that she’d never quite been able to embrace, and she knew it was because she’d never fully trusted any partner. She’d loved some of them—not the way she loved Barba, but she _had_ loved, as much as she’d been capable. Things were different, now. _She_ was different. Loving Barba had changed her. Barba loving _her_ had changed her. Not only did she trust him implicitly, she wanted to do anything within her power to bring him pleasure.

And she was, as no one ever had before. This was new territory for both of them.

She’d cuffed his hands close together above his head, so he’d be more comfortable, but his legs were spread, his ankles attached to the slatted footboard. The top of the footboard was lower than the mattress, so he had to lie with his heels at the edge of the bed, but the cuffs were well-padded and soft against his ankles even when he pulled against them.

And he _had_ been pulling against them, off and on, for nearly an hour. His chest hair glistened with sweat; his body was slick with it. His gaze was bright, his breathing uneven.

She was naked, too, and between his knees, bent forward. She had him at the brink, again—she’d lost count of how many times she’d brought him to the edge of climax, only to back off—she could tell by the tightness of his stomach and the way the muscles in his thighs bunched as he tried to arch against her mouth.

She released him, and he made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His whole body was trembling, and she was achy with desire, herself. She gave him a few seconds of respite, and then closed her mouth around him again. He bucked against her, as well as he could, with a sound close to a sob. He was close, so terribly close…

She let him go, again, and lifted her head to look at him.

Barba had never felt so desperate in his life, had never felt such sweet pain. He wanted it to end, but he wanted it to last forever. When she pulled her mouth from his erection, again, he whimpered. He couldn’t help it. The word _mercy_ rose to his lips, and he clamped his mouth shut against it.

But she saw. She saw it in his eyes, and she crawled up to kiss him. He claimed her mouth eagerly, frantically. He shifted his hips; even the cool air was too much for his over-sensitized erection. He wanted—he _needed_ —

She pulled her mouth from his and said, “Do you want me to untie you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head on the pillow. “No. Liv, please,” he begged. “I—I need—”

“I know, Raf,” she said, and he groaned as he watched her position herself over him. “I know, baby.” She took him in her hand, but she kept her grasp light. Even so, she could feel him throbbing against her palm, and could see him desperately trying not to buck. She sank down onto him, taking his entire length.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” he breathed. He pulled against the cuffs above his head, but when she looked at him, he shook his head. “Jesus, Liv, I can’t—” he groaned. “I’m going—”

“Come for me, then,” she said, leaning forward so she could lever her hips up before settling back down.

“Kiss,” he said—the only word he could manage, and it was spoken with raw desperation. She met his mouth with hers as she flexed her hips, and he arched his back, thrusting against her. Tremors wracked his body as he came inside her. She put her hands up, lacing her fingers with his against the headboard, kissing him as she rocked her hips back and forth, bringing herself to her own climax.

When she finally lifted herself off him, they were both shaking. She unlatched the cuffs from his wrists with trembling fingers, and his arms immediately went around her, pulling her against his chest. He kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheek, her mouth.

“Are you okay?” she asked, searching his face.

“I love you,” he said. “That was…intense. God, Liv.”

“I’ll undo your feet.”

“In a minute,” he said, tightening his arms around her. “I just want to hold you. I just want to hold you,” he repeated.

“You’re going to be sore,” she said. “Your hips, your shoulders—your muscles—”

“I don’t care,” he answered. “I don’t care. Next time I’ll remember to take some Advil before we start.”

She laughed, bending her head to kiss his sweaty shoulder, and said, “Me, too. That was hard work.”

He chuckled. “Believe me, I appreciate the effort you put in,” he murmured against her hair. They were silent for a couple of minutes, letting their hearts settle into normal rhythms. “Liv?” he finally said.

“Hmm?”

“Will you stay married to me forever?”

She smiled. “Might as well. We’ve already done so much of the paperwork…”

 

*       *       *

 

They spent most of the next day lounging on the beach, letting the heat of the sun soak into their sore muscles. In the afternoon, after a late lunch at an outdoor café, they wandered through tourist shops, buying souvenirs for the kids, for Lucia, for their friends. They bought matching t-shirts for themselves, laughing at how cheesy they were.

In the evening, they wandered back to the hotel to drop off their purchases and change for dinner. Benson put on a dress that Barba couldn’t seem to stop touching, and when he was dressed in his suit and tie, she had to struggle with her urge to peel it off of him.

They took a taxi to the restaurant so they wouldn’t get sweaty in the evening heat, and they sat in the back of the car with their hands clasped on Barba’s thigh, stealing kisses every minute or so.

The restaurant was ritzy, full of elegantly-dressed patrons and crystal chandeliers and crisp, white linens. Barba and Benson sat across from each other, but they were leaned over the small table, talking quietly, until their meals were delivered. Barba had ordered a bottle of red wine, but they were only sipping at the alcohol. They ate slowly, savoring the meal and their time together.

When they left the restaurant, they decided to walk toward their hotel, to stretch out the evening. They were both aware of the fact that their third night was already drawing to a close, and their vacation would soon be over. While they missed their kids and were anxious to see them, they also didn’t want the honeymoon to end.

“Let’s get some junk food and cheap liquor,” Benson suggested, bumping her shoulder against his with a smile. “We can watch movies and just…veg out.”

“Our room has a TV?” he asked, and she laughed. “Let’s veg away, then. There’s a store a block up from the hotel.”

She leaned close to him. “Have I ever told you how much I love the way you smell?” she asked.

“Actually, I seem to recall you telling me I was _stinky_.”

“An exception,” she smiled. “I’ve smelled this cologne, and it’s not the same without _you_.”

He looked at her, cocking an eyebrow. “And on whom were you _smelling it_?” he asked.

“I tried sniffing the bottle when I missed you,” she said, and he threw his head back to laugh, pulling her closer to his side. “It didn’t work, though. It’s not the same.”

He leaned over to kiss her. “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he said. He pressed his lips against her temple. “I love the smell of your hair,” he murmured.

“It’s the shampoo.”

“No,” he said, smiling at her. “Are you cold? Do you want my jacket?” he asked, even though he knew the night air wasn’t the reason for her shiver. She shook her head and pressed even closer.

They walked slowly, watching the world around them and marveling at how much the pace and energy differed from that of Manhattan. When they saw the lights of their hotel looming ahead, they knew that they couldn’t make the night last forever no matter how hard they tried.

Barba gestured toward the convenience store across the street. “You want to go in here?”

“Yeah. Let’s get sugared and liquored up,” she said.

Chuckling, he answered, “I have no objection.”

“I would’ve overruled you, anyway,” she quipped, and he laughed again.

They crossed the street and went into the store, wandering through the aisles looking for properly-enticing junk food. After gathering a few packages, they made their way to the liquor section.

Barba was reaching up for a bottle when the quiet was suddenly broken by shouting in the front of the store. He and Benson were both turning toward the sound when there was a crash and, a moment later, a gunshot that shattered the air around them.

Benson grabbed the back of Barba’s neck and shoved him down as his brain was still struggling to process the sound. His ears were ringing, but he could hear people yelling. He was on his hands and knees. Benson was crouched beside him, holding him down. He couldn’t see what was going on, but after a moment, she shoved him to his right, toward the end of the aisle. He started to scramble in that direction, with his heart slamming in his chest, but he stopped when someone stepped in front of him.

He heard Benson saying something, but the words were lost in the ringing of his ears as he looked up the barrel of the gun pointed at his face. His heart stopped in his chest before resuming its thudding rampage. The man was talking, but his words were lost, too. He was gesturing with the gun, and Barba pushed unsteadily to his feet. He could feel his wife beside him, but he kept his eyes on the gun.

“You don’t have to do this,” he heard Benson say, and suddenly his hearing returned with an overwhelming swirl of shouts and clatters. Barba realized that the man had asked for his wallet and watch—the words penetrated his brain, belatedly—and he reached toward his pocket with trembling fingers.

But the gun was turning toward Benson, and Barba’s stomach dropped.

“The cops will be here, soon,” she was saying. She sounded calm—Barba couldn’t wrap his head around how _calm_ she sounded—as the gun leveled itself at her face. Barba realized that she was right; he could hear sirens in the distance, already, now that his ears were working overtime. Someone must’ve tipped off the police.

It didn’t matter. They could be pulling up to the door and it wouldn’t matter, because the man’s finger was inside the trigger guard and the gun was pointed between Benson’s eyes.

“No,” Barba said, trying to step in front of her. She grabbed his arm and yanked him backward.

The gun had started to swing toward him, again, but Benson said, “No, no. No. Keep it on me. Right here.”

The man was wearing a mask, but his eyes were on Benson. She was holding his gaze, and she was suddenly sure—absolutely _certain_ —that he was going to shoot her. She thought of Noah. She thought of Rosie. Each of them had already lost a mother. She wanted desperately to watch them grow up, she wanted to grow old with Barba and sit beside him as their children started families of their own. In the blink of an eye, everything had changed, and she felt her future—their future—crumbling around her.

“Come on!” someone shouted from the front of the store, and the sirens were screaming closer.

“Please don’t,” Barba said, his voice airless, and the man’s gaze shifted toward him. “Take my wallet. Please don’t hurt her. Please.”

The man reached for the wallet, and the barrel of the gun shifted toward the space between Benson and Barba.

There was no time for rational thought, and she acted purely on instinct. She grabbed the man’s wrist and brought her elbow down on his arm, knocking the strength from his fingers. He managed to fire off a single shot, shattering a row of wine bottles, and the gun clattered to the floor even as Benson was turning and throwing her shoulder into the man’s body.

They both went down. She had the strength of adrenaline and desperation, but he was still stronger, and he twisted, slamming her against the floor. She kneed him in the crotch, but he barely hesitated, grabbing a handful of her hair as he pinned her against the floor.

Barba stepped up beside him and pressed the muzzle of the gun against the man’s temple. The man froze, his hand still in her hair. Benson found herself wishing the man weren’t wearing a ski mask, so that the hot metal would brand his skin as a reminder.

“Get off her,” Barba said, and she marveled at how steady his voice was. He’d never held a gun on anyone, let alone pressed flush against their head, but his hand wasn’t shaking. There was a glint in his eyes that she’d never seen before.

The man pushed himself back, releasing her. She scrambled up and pulled the gun from Barba’s hand, keeping it trained on the man on the floor. She could see the flash of lights, but the sirens had been silenced.

“Liv,” Barba said, and now there was a shakiness in his voice, and his hands.

The other perp had already been apprehended outside, as he’d tried to make a break for it; Benson was aware of this in an abstract sort of way. The cops were coming into the store, guns drawn, and she dropped her weapon, kicking it away from the man on the floor. She held her hands up, although she didn’t take her eyes off him.

“I’m NYPD,” she said. “NYPD.” They weren’t in New York, of course. She suddenly wished they were. Staring down at the man, she said, quietly, “You’re lucky your fate isn’t in our hands.”

 

*       *       *

 

She pushed the door closed and grabbed Barba, shoving him against the wall. She kissed him, roughly, tugging at his tie to loosen it before fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. He held onto her arms, turning his face from her kiss.

“Liv,” he said, but she didn’t seem to hear him as she pulled his shirt open. “Liv, you’re okay,” he said.

“I need you to fuck me, now,” she said, and he was disturbed by the choice of words. She unfastened his pants. He reached for her wrists, but she knocked his hands aside and slid a hand into his underwear. He wasn’t aroused—she was too upset—but his body started to respond to her touch.

“Olivia,” he said. “Look at me.”

He didn’t think she was going to, but after a moment, she lifted her gaze to his. “Please,” she said, and the emotions in her eyes were like a dagger to his heart. “I need to feel— _you_ , Rafa, please. _Now_.”

He turned, pushing her gently against the wall, and slid his pants down to his thighs. She still had him in her hand, trying to get him ready, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was giving her what she needed. He reached down and hiked her dress up and, gripping her hips, he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him and held his neck with one hand. With her other hand, she guided his semi-erection into place, using a finger to push aside her underwear.

“Liv,” he said.

“Now,” she said, clenching her legs around him.

He thrust into her, and she tipped her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. Both of her arms were around his neck, now. “Liv, look at me,” he said.

“Harder, Rafa,” she answered, but she opened her eyes.

“Olivia, you’re alright,” he told her. “Look at me.”

“Please,” she repeated, and he couldn’t resist her pleading. He moved his hips, pushing her against the wall, and she clung to him, one hand fisted into the hair at the back of his head. He set a quick and hard, rough pace, watching her face.

“Liv, I love you,” he said, and he could see the tears in her eyes as she held onto him as tightly as possible. “You’re okay. We’re okay. I’m right here,” he said, and she let out a strangled sob as she came around him. He withdrew with a shift of his hips and stepped back, clutching her to him as he turned toward the bed. He sat against the pillows, and pulled her around onto his lap. His pants were still at mid-thigh, and he was still wearing his suit jacket and tie. None of that mattered.

He held her against his chest, stroking her hair with one hand. She was crying, but softly. She was holding onto his jacket, her face buried against his shirt.

“Shh, honey,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

“Raf.”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“You didn’t finish,” she said, starting to draw back.

He pulled her closer, kissing her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Let me—”

“No, Olivia,” he said, quietly. “Just breathe, love.”

She sat in his lap, snuggled against his chest, in silence for a minute. Then she said, “I want you to tie me up.”

His stomach clenched. “No, you don’t,” he answered.

She drew back to look at him. He expected her to say _don’t tell me what I want_ , but she didn’t. “I do,” she insisted, instead. “I would’ve said no. Even yesterday—even this morning, the idea was…uncomfortable for me.”

“Liv—”

“No, Rafa,” she said, putting a hand to his jaw. “I can’t—I _won’t_ hold _anything_ back from you. I…I need this. I promise you, I’m thinking clearly. I know you’re worried—I’m sorry.”

“Hush with that,” he murmured, as he tucked her hair behind her ear. He’d had little time to process his own feelings about seeing her with a gun to her head; even now, he fought the acid in his stomach, he pushed the thoughts away, knowing that she needed him.

“Help me,” she said, and that was too much for him. He pulled her tight, so tightly that neither of them could breathe. And then, finally, he released her, lowering his arms, and she slid from his lap. His heart was thudding in his chest as he watched her fasten the handcuffs to the footboard, but it wasn’t desire he was feeling. He wanted her—he always wanted her—but she was right; he _was_ worried, worried that she was forcing herself to do something that she didn’t really want to do.

He had to trust her, though. He had no choice. He couldn’t refuse her, not when she’d explicitly asked for his help. He wanted to protect her, even if it was from herself, but he had to trust her. All he could do was let her know that she was safe and loved.

Unlike she’d done for him, she fastened the cuffs to the corners of the bed. This was symbolic: she was opening herself to him, completely. He understood that, and he was filled with a new determination. He knew what he needed to do, now.

She stripped off her dress and underwear and sat on the far side of the bed, swinging her legs up. He stood, slowly, and undressed himself while she fastened the fuzzy cuffs around her ankles with her legs spread. She laid back and twisted, cuffing her left wrist to the headboard. Then she straightened, her head on the pillows, and looked at him.

He was out of his clothes, and he held her gaze as he walked to the corner of the bed. She held up her wrist, but he knew that her heart was slamming in her chest, already. He could see it in her eyes, could hear it in her shallow breaths. He cuffed her wrist, and saw her throat bob.

He climbed up and over her, straddling her hips but keeping his weight on his knees and bracing himself with an arm. He kissed her jaw, her throat—she tipped her head back, and he teased lightly at the sensitive skin before trailing softs kisses over her chest, her breasts, her stomach.

He moved his knees so they were between her spread legs, and with his feet hooked over the foot of the bed, he slid his hands beneath her hips and bent his head down. She pulled lightly at the cuffs around her wrists. Barba levered her hips up just a bit, just enough to pull the restraints tight against her ankles without any real pressure.

He closed his mouth around her, and she gasped, pulling harder against her restraints as her back arched. He held her against his mouth, but his tongue was gentle, slow. Her thighs tensed as she tried in vain to tighten her legs around him. He continued to tease her with his tongue, sucking gently between flicks, until he felt her beginning to tremble and he knew she was close.

He pulled his head back to look up at her, and her hips sank down against his hands. “Tell me,” he commanded, softly.

“I—I thought he was going to kill you,” she said, breathlessly. “I’ve never been that scared in my life,” she admitted, and he nodded. He could understand that; he’d seen her with a gun to _her_ head, after all. “Raf,” she said, shifting her hips.

He pulled one hand from beneath her and rubbed his fingers over her clit before slipping them inside. She moaned, trying to press herself against his hand, tugging at her restraints. He curved his fingers within her. His own body was responding, now, responding to her desire. He could feel her walls pressing against his fingers as she tried to pull him deeper, and he stopped, looking up at her.

“I don’t like being out of control,” she said, shaking her head on the pillow. He would’ve withdrawn his fingers, but he knew she wasn’t asking him to stop. “I’ve never—I’ve never willingly given—given up all control,” she said. “And I thought I’d opened myself up to you completely. You’ve seen me…more vulnerable than anyone. But that gun…I thought…I was going to lose you…and then…”

“And then it was pointed at you,” he murmured, holding her gaze.

“I thought he was going to kill me,” she said, her lips barely moving. “It’s not the first time,” she added, and his stomach churned. “But it was different, because of you. I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t have a gun or a badge, or—or anything, I couldn’t do anything,” she said, with tears overflowing her eyes.

He started moving his fingers again, with his other hand splayed over her hip. He returned her quickly to the brink and paused, again.

“It was the first time,” she said. “The first time I was—was completely helpless—with _you_.” She shifted against his hand and made a sound of frustration. “Come on, Raf,” she said.

“Not yet,” he answered. “I’ll let you come when you’re ready,” he said.

Her lips parted in surprise. She stared at him, and he saw understanding dawning, as she slowly came to realize what he’d known all along.

She still hadn’t given up control, not entirely, because she knew with complete confidence that he would stop if she asked him to. Just as he’d known, the night before, that he could plead mercy and be released without hesitation.

They could never give each other irrevocable power. Not ever. They loved and trusted each other too much for that. The restraints were symbolic; the surrendering was symbolic, and it could never be anything more, or less, than that.

“You not liking something is not the same as holding back, Liv,” he said, quietly. “Yesterday, you were just as vulnerable as I was, don’t think I don’t know that. Every day, we do our jobs, we try to make the world better for our kids, for everyone else’s kids. But we’ll never be able to control the world, honey. All we can do is…hold onto the people we love.” As he said the words, he could feel some of his own tension sliding away. There was still a knot of fear in his stomach, and he knew it would be there for a long time. But there was relief, too, because they were both alive, they were together, and he could see the change in her eyes, could see her coming back to herself.

He moved his fingers, slowly, and she let out a breath.

“Tell me what you want,” he said.

“I want you to make love to me. Like this,” she answered.

He withdrew his hand and pushed himself up her body, trailing kisses across her hips and belly and breasts until he reached her mouth. He kissed her until their heads were spinning from lack of air, and then he kissed her a little longer. He reached down a hand to position himself at the junction of her spread legs, and she pulled at the cuffs around her wrists.

He entered her slowly and then stopped, shifting his legs apart so that they pressed along the lengths of hers. He reached his arms up and joined their hands together, fingers intertwined and palms to palms. His full weight was pressing her into the mattress, now, his stomach and chest flattened against hers, and he covered her mouth with his, muffling her groan of pleasure.

He flexed his hips, filling her and withdrawing partway. She knew that she was closer than he was, and he could feel her resisting her own climax, willing her body to wait for him to catch up. With her legs levered apart and immobilized, the sensation was more intense for her, and she was having difficulty fighting it.

He moved his hips faster. She was gripping his hands so tightly that his fingers were numb. He kissed her mouth, but with his lips closed, breathing through his nose, as he felt her body trying desperately to buck beneath his. He lifted his head to meet her eyes.

“Do you feel me here, Liv?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “All of me?”

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly.

“All…of me…” he repeated. He closed his eyes, unable to keep them open, and rested his forehead against hers.

“I feel you,” she managed, and then she was tightening around him, and after a few more thrusts, he spilled his seed within her with a final twitch of his hips. She tipped her chin up to capture his mouth in a kiss. After a few moments, he turned her hands over, using his thumbs to unhook the latches, and she immediately let go of his hands to slide her fingers into his hair. She held his head and kissed him, and he let her claim every bit of his mouth. He braced himself on his elbows to take some of his weight off her body.

When she released his mouth, he shifted downward, carefully pulling himself from her body. He twisted, reaching back, and unfastened one ankle, then the other. Then he crawled up beside her and rolled onto his back, holding out his arms. She curved onto her side, draping her upper body over his chest with her head tucked beneath his chin, and he brushed her hair back.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, running his hands over her arm and shoulder and back, his movements languid.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Let’s stay in all day tomorrow. Let’s let the world worry about itself for a while.”

He kissed her head. “The beach is overrated, anyway,” he said. “I’ve got all the warmth and light I need, right here.”

She laughed against his chest. “You’re such a sap,” she reiterated, and he smiled against her hair. “I love you, Rafa.”

“I know you do, honey,” he murmured.

 

*       *       *

 

“Papa! Livvie!” Rosie squealed, toddling toward them with her arms outstretched. Barba pulled his arm from Benson’s waist and snatched up his daughter, kissing her neck while she giggled.

Benson knelt on the thin airport carpeting to hug her son. She smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. “I missed you so much,” she told him.

Holding Rosie in one arm, Barba sank into a crouch and held out his other arm. Noah stepped into his hug, grinning, and Benson wrapped her arms around the three of them: her family; her life; her everything.

They stayed that way for what felt like a long time. Even Rosie was subdued, seeming to sense the importance of their reunion. Finally, Benson kissed the girl on the cheek and pulled back. She rose to her feet, taking Barba’s arm to help him as he stood with a wince.

Barba, still holding his daughter, gave his mother a brief hug. He looked at Rollins. She was in uniform, but she’d taken a long lunch to give Lucia and the kids a ride to the airport. Now that Benson and Barba were off the plane, she was ready to head back to work. Barba could see the twinkle in the detective’s eyes, though.

“So, you kids have a nice time?” she asked, shooting Benson a pointed look. “Looks like you got some sun.”

Benson laughed, linking her elbow with Barba’s. “Yes. Thanks.”

“How’d that, uh, surprise work out?” Rollins asked.

The husband and wife looked at each other, smiling. “Pretty well,” he answered. He turned his gaze back to Rollins, who seemed disappointed by his lack of embarrassment. His smile turned into a smirk, and his expression only grew smugger when Rollins frowned.

“We have presents?” Noah asked, looking up at them expectantly.

“Presents!” Rosie echoed excitedly.

“As soon as we get home, _mi amors_ ,” Barba said. “Let’s go.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been...a while, so please forgive continuity errors. Also, if you've ever been to Disney World, please just forget whatever you know about the place, because I decided I was too busy (lazy) to research the park and so I just, you know, made stuff up. 
> 
> This might be the final chapter. It feels like it. Then again, there's no smut in this chapter, so who knows?

Barba bent over the sandbox and scooped his screeching daughter up with an arm, trying to keep himself calm. Her forehead was covered in blood, and her face was splotchy from crying.

“Shh, _mija_ , _está bien_ ,” he murmured as he used the sleeve of his sweatshirt to gently swipe at the blood, trying to see how bad the injury was. He was relieved to see that it was just a minor cut at her hairline, in spite of the alarming amount of blood. “You’re okay, sweetheart,” he said, and she grabbed the collar of his shirt, shoving her face into the crook of his shoulder as she sobbed.

Barba saw a man coming in quickly and held up a hand, palm out, turning his hips so that his body was between Rosie and the angry man charging toward them.

“Noah,” Barba said. He met the boy’s eyes for a moment and gestured with his head, and Noah obediently scurried around behind him. With his hand still held up, Barba focused his attention on the other man. “Take it easy,” he said, even though he could feel his own blood boiling in his veins.

“Take it easy?” the man said, glaring at Barba as he stopped in front of him. “That kid—” He pointed toward Noah with a violent jab of his finger, “—just shoved my daughter into the edge of the sandbox, her fucking head is bleeding.”

“Your daughter hit mine in the head with a truck,” Barba said, struggling to keep his voice level. He could feel his cheeks heating.

“Says who? Him? You teach your boy it’s okay to beat up girls? He probably hit _her_ , _too_.”

It was on the tip of Barba’s tongue to tell the man he’d witnessed the incident himself, but although it would be easier, it wasn’t true. And Noah knew it wasn't true. Barba didn’t want to teach his kids that lying was to be used as a matter of convenience. “Your daughter is twice my daughter’s size. Noah was only defending her. He didn’t mean for her to hit her head, that was an accident. And I apologize,” he added, even though the words tasted bitter on his tongue while his daughter was soaking his shirt with tears and blood.

“You let him hit girls and then make excuses for him? If you won’t teach him manners, I’ll—”

“If you touch my son, so help me God,” Barba said, shifting in front of the other man as he tried to sidestep toward Noah.

“You’ll do what?” the man asked, moving forward so that Barba’s hand was pressed against his chest. He was several inches taller, and he glared down at Barba, his cheeks ruddy with anger, his eyes begging for a fight.

Barba held his stare.

“What is going on here?” Benson asked, coming up behind Barba.

Rosie lifted her head and held out her arms, saying on a sob, “ _Liv-vie_!” Barba turned partway toward his wife, letting his daughter launch herself into Benson’s arms, but he didn’t take his eyes from the other man.

Barba heard Benson’s soft exhalation at the sight of the blood, and the carefully-controlled emotion in her voice when she said, “We should head home, Raf.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, glaring at the other man.

“Your son beats up girls and your wife bosses you around,” the man said with a twist of his lips. “I guess she’s the one I should fight, but lucky for her, I don’t hit women.”

Barba stepped forward until he was toe to toe with the other man. “You wouldn’t stand a chance,” he said in a low voice, holding the man’s gaze.

“Know what I think?” the guy asked, tipping his head. “Little bastard doesn’t even look like you, maybe you should find his real father—”

Benson had already grabbed Barba’s wrist, because she could see how close he was to punching the man in the face. Barba held his temper by the sheerest force of will, reminding himself that his children—and others—were watching. He interrupted the other man in a low voice: “Walk away, friend. Take care of your daughter.”

“Maybe I’ll let _my_ daughter take care of _yours_ ,” the man said.

Barba’s left hand was curled into a fist, and he pressed his knuckles against the other man’s chest, pushing him back a half-step before straightening one finger to point at his face. “Do not threaten my child,” he said in a low voice. Benson’s fingers tightened around his right wrist, and he pulled his arm away from her. This asshole in front of him was itching for a fight, and Barba had no intention of being sucker-punched while his wife was holding his wrist—and his daughter in her other arm.

For a moment, Barba really thought the man was going to hit him, and he braced himself mentally and physically. Barba wasn’t going to throw the first punch, but he had no intention of going down in front of his children—at least not without a hell of a fight.

Several men and women were closing in on them, though. “Come on fellas, break it up,” one man said. A woman added: “There are kids watching.”

“Yeah,” Barba told him. “And yours is crying in the sand. Pick her up and comfort her, for God’s sake.” The other man shifted to draw back his arm, but one of the newcomers had already grabbed his elbow. Barba took a step back, shaking his head. “We’re done here,” he said. He reached behind himself and found Noah’s shoulder with a hand.

“Yeah, we’re done,” the man agreed, shaking off the restraining hand. “Until next time.”

Barba rolled his eyes upward and drew a breath through his nose. “Come on,” he said, turning and steering Noah toward Benson’s car. He looked at Rosie, but she had her face buried against Benson’s shoulder and one chubby thumb stuffed into her mouth. He met his wife’s eyes for only a moment before turning his gaze toward the car.

“Wait, my Spiderman,” Noah said suddenly, stopping in his tracks.

Barba said, “I’ll buy you a new Spiderman, let’s go.”

“But—”

“Leave it,” Barba said, harsher than he’d intended. He saw the boy’s wince, and immediately felt like an ass. He gave Noah’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We’ll get a new one, I promise, let’s just—”

“Ellie!” Rosie exclaimed, lifting her head in alarm. She looked at Barba with huge, watery green eyes and pointed toward the sandbox. Her face was filthy, covered in a mixture of dirt, snot, spit, tears, and blood. “Ellie,” she said again, kicking her feet against Benson’s hip.

Barba reached out a hand and grabbed one of the girl’s ankles. “Don’t do that,” he admonished. “Don’t kick Mommy.” He said it without thinking; he was distracted, and angry. He was doing his best to control his anger, but it was thrumming through him, looking for an outlet, and he wanted to get away from the park, away from that insufferable bastard—

“Papa, _Ellie_ ,” Rosie insisted, her dark brows dipping down into a scowl.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

“Maybe I should go,” Benson suggested.

“I can get my kids’ toys,” he snapped before he could stop himself. He glared at her for only a heartbeat before he turned away. He knew she didn’t deserve his anger any more than the kids did. “I’ll meet you at the car,” he added without looking back. He stalked into the park, watching the man and his daughter from the corner of his eye. The man looked over at him, and Barba thought, _Try it now, I fucking dare you_.

Barba snatched the doll and Spiderman figure from the sandbox and headed back toward the car with them clutched in his fist. He could see Benson strapping Rosie into the car seat and then, as he drew nearer, Noah into his booster. By the time Barba reached the car, both kids were already secured into the backseat and Benson was closing the door. Barba strode around to the passenger side without comment and dropped into the front seat. He turned and reached back, handing the toys to the kids.

Rosie snatched Ellie the doll from his hand and clutched it to her chest. Noah took his Spiderman and lowered it to his leg. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “Sorry.”

Barba drew a calming breath. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said.

“S’okay.”

“No,” Barba said as Benson climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled her door closed. “It’s not. I’m sorry. None of this was your fault. Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “I like the old park better,” he said.

“You’ll get used to this one, honey,” Benson answered as she started the car and checked her mirrors. “The old one is too far to walk, now.”

“We could drive,” Noah muttered.

“We can go visit the old park when I have a day off,” she suggested.

“Okay,” Noah said, frowning down at his legs.

Barba turned forward in his seat and sighed.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

“Fine,” he said without looking at her.

 

*       *       *

 

Rosie had been cleaned up and had a band-aid over the small gash on her forehead, and she and Noah were playing in the boy’s bedroom while Barba finished preparing dinner—spaghetti and garlic bread. Benson had been on her phone most of the time they’d been home, which suited Barba better than it normally would. He was in no mood to talk.

He served up the spaghetti and put the dishes on the table so that the kids’ food would have a couple of minutes to cool. He poured their juice and put the cups beside their plates, glancing at Benson. She was pacing in the living room, one hand over her free ear so she could better hear whoever was talking on the other end of the call.

She had a case. Barba didn’t know all of the details. She would tell him if he asked, but he hadn’t asked. It was sometimes hard for him, still, to not be working with her—to not be able to help with the tough cases. He could offer opinions and facts and his expertise, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t regret the career choices he’d made; he’d made them for her and the kids, his family. It meant she was rarely sitting in court behind him anymore, though, unless she had the day off or their cases overlapped, and he missed seeing her there when he walked back to his table. He missed her silent support.

They were leaving for Florida in the morning, and she was trying to make sure the squad had everything under control.

Barba sighed, running a hand over his face. He hadn’t felt well for most of the day, and the spaghetti held little appeal. He set a glass of wine beside her plate and headed toward Noah’s bedroom to fetch the kids. Benson glanced up at him as he passed, and he hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen, mouthing the word _supper_. She gave him a tired smile and nodded in acknowledgement before turning away and continuing to pace.

Barba reached a hand toward Noah’s door, which was only open a crack; Barba supposed Benson had closed it partway to help muffle any noise. Now Barba hesitated at the sound of Noah’s voice.

“She’s not an elephant, she’s a doll. The elephant’s mine.” He sounded annoyed, and Barba hadn’t heard him take that tone with Rosie, before. The boy had always been patient with her—often surprisingly so.

“Dumbo,” Rosie said.

Noah sighed. “Not Dumbo, Eddie. You know that.”

“Ellie.”

“I don’t care, she’s still not an elephant,” Noah said.

There was a pause. “Dumbo.”

“ _Eddie_ ,” Noah returned with an edge in his voice. Barba almost pushed the door open to intervene, but something made him hesitate a moment longer.

“ _Ed-Ed-Ed-Ed_ ,” Rosie said, and Barba could practically hear her scowl. She was trying to be annoying, now, because she was angry. There seemed to be a lot of that going around.

“Not Ed,” Noah snapped. “Eddie. Your dad has a friend Eddie. _Ed_ was…” He seemed to be considering, and Barba felt his stomach clench. Part of it was hearing Noah refer to him as ‘your dad,’ but that wasn’t all of it. Barba had never heard Noah speak about Ed Tucker. He’d been so young when Tucker and Benson split up that Barba had assumed—or maybe just hoped—that Noah didn’t really remember him. The boy’s next words doused that hope. “Ed was almost my dad. He wanted to marry my mom and he even took us to Paris. That’s in France. You don’t know where that is because you’re too little.”

Rosie didn’t answer. Barba didn’t know if she was sulking, or simply not paying attention to Noah.

Noah said quietly: “He would’ve been my dad. He loved me, he said so. But he had to leave.” Barba could hear the pain in the boy’s voice, and it was more than Barba could bear. He tapped his knuckles against the door in a light knock before pushing it open. He saw surprise and guilt flash across Noah’s face, but Barba was careful to keep his own expression schooled.

“Hey, how’s it going in here?” he asked with considerably more cheer than he was feeling. Rosie clambered to her feet and hurried toward him with her doll in the crook of her arm.

“Fine,” Noah muttered, looking down at his toys.

“Spaghetti’s ready. Let’s go wash our hands, alright?”

Noah pushed his figures away and got to his feet.

“Rosie, honey, go wait in the bathroom, I’ll be right there.” She opened her mouth to argue, her forehead already scrunching up. “No arguing, _mija_ ,” he said firmly, returning her stare. “Daddy will be there in a minute.”

She considered but seemed to think better of her instinct to dig in her heels. Barba sent up a silent prayer of thanks for small favors as she stomped out of the bedroom and toward the bathroom.

“I’m off the phone, I’ve got her,” Benson called.

“Okay, thanks,” he responded. He looked at Noah, who was standing in the middle of the bedroom. “You feeling okay, buddy?” Barba asked.

“Sure,” Noah said with a shrug.

“You want to talk about what happened earlier?”

Noah shrugged again, more hesitantly.

Barba walked over to Noah’s bed and sat on the edge. “Come talk to me for a minute,” he said, and the boy crossed over to sit beside him. Noah looked at the floor, his shoulders hunched beneath his ears. “Honey, you know fighting is wrong, and it’s not okay to hurt other kids. You shouldn’t have pushed that girl, but I know you didn’t mean for her to hit her head. You were protecting your sister, and you’re not in trouble, alright? I wish you’d called to me for help but I know that sometimes things happen in the blink of an eye and we have to make a quick decision. You’re a good boy, Noah, and you have good instincts. I have faith in you, I know that you’ll do what you think is right.”

Noah looked like he wanted to say something, but he chewed his lip and held his silence.

“We’re not going to let that guy ruin our vacation, right?” Barba asked, bumping his elbow lightly against Noah’s arm. “Bright and early we’ll be on our way to Disney World. Are you excited?”

“Yeah,” Noah said, although he sounded far from excited.

“We won’t have time for a real breakfast before we have to get to the airport, but once we get to the resort, we’ll get whatever you want to eat for your birthday, alright? Have you thought about which rides you want to go on?”

Noah shrugged a shoulder. “Space Mountain?” he suggested.

“Hmm. Rollercoasters, huh?” Barba regarded Noah for a moment. “You know you can say anything to me, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Do you have anything you want to ask me? Or tell me?”

Noah hesitated, and shook his head.

“Okay. Well, if you do, I’m here. Let’s go get washed up, alright?”

Noah nodded and got to his feet. He turned toward Barba and put a tentative hand on the man’s knee. “I might be scared on a rollercoaster,” he admitted.

“There’s nothing wrong with being scared,” Barba answered.

“Will you go, too?”

“Of course I will, if you want me to.” He looked at Noah’s young face, his heart swelling with love for the boy. His love for Noah had sneaked up on him, changing him before he’d even realized it was happening. Barba had fallen in love with Benson quickly, but their relationship had evolved, and strengthened, over the years. He’d always been aware of his feelings, always conscious of how much he was showing or hiding, always aware of a line that hadn’t been crossed. She’d changed his life, she’d changed _him_.

But so had Noah, and his influence had been more subtle. The transition to _Uncle Rafa_ had been easier than Barba could’ve imagined, and it hadn’t only been Tucker’s relationship with _Benson_ that had caused Barba pain, that had given him unwelcome pangs of jealousy. Benson and her son had become his family long before he’d confessed his feelings to her. And without Noah, Barba wouldn’t have had a clue how to deal with Rosie appearing in his life. He might not be a perfect father, but he was far better than he would’ve been without Noah in his life.

“I love you, _mijo_ ,” he said quietly, reaching out to settle a hand against Noah’s curly hair. “You know that, right?” Noah nodded. “Forever. No matter what.”

“Love you, too,” Noah answered in little more than a whisper. He leaned forward and put his arms around Barba’s neck, and Barba gathered him into a hug, kissing his head.

“Let’s go have supper. We need baths and to get to bed early tonight so we can head out first thing in the morning.”

“Okay,” Noah said, drawing back. He hesitated. “I’ve been on an airplane before.”

“I know,” Barba answered. “This one will be a shorter flight, though.”

Noah opened his mouth and closed it. Barba waited, but Noah had clearly decided not to voice whatever was on his mind. Barba considered pushing the issue, at least gently nudging Noah toward the conversation, but he supposed now was not the best time. A headache had settled itself into the back of Barba’s skull, and his wife and daughter were waiting for them in the other room.

“Alright, let’s go eat,” Barba said, getting to his feet and putting a hand on Noah’s shoulder.

 

*       *       *

 

“You’ve been pissed off all night—ever since we got home.”

Barba threw his shirt toward the hamper and shot her a dirty look. “I’m not _pissed off_ ,” he said. “I just have a headache.”

“Really. That’s all, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Do you want me to get you—”

“No,” he said, yanking on his sweatpants.

“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

He turned toward her. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in shorts and a t-shirt. “I don’t need you to take care of me,” he said. He could feel the scowl on his face, and the anger pulsing in his veins, and the headache pounding in his skull, and the acid churning in his gut.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me?” she asked, her tone mild.

He turned away and grabbed a clean t-shirt. “No. I just want to go to sleep.”

“You’re angry because I wouldn’t let you brawl with some asshole on the playground?”

He pulled the shirt over his head with angry jerks. “Let me?” he asked with his back to her.

“You would’ve regretted it,” she said.

“Maybe I would’ve gotten my ass kicked—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“—but I don’t need you—” He turned toward her and registered her calm expression, and knew that she was goading him. He felt his scowl darken, and his temples thudded. “I thought you said he named the elephant after a song,” he said.

She blinked, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. “Eddie? He did. Bananas in Pyjamas. It’s this stupid—”

“He didn’t have any help, huh?”

“Help?” Her forehead was creased in confusion. “What do you mean, help?”

“Where’d he hear the song?”

“I’m not sure. I think Tucker—”

“Ah, _Ed Tucker_ ,” he cut in before he could stop himself.

She tipped her head. “I think he played the song for him, but the name’s a coincidence. He’s also got a Tommy the Tiger from the same song.”

“A coincidence.”

“Spit it out, Barba,” she said, throwing his last name at him as a taunt.

“I guess I just didn’t realize he was so attached. To Tucker.” He could hear the coldness in his voice. She didn’t deserve it, but he needed to lash out. She knew it. She was pushing him into it, backing him into a fight. He knew, in a distant part of his mind, somewhere behind the headache, that she was doing it to help him, but that didn’t make it better. It made him angrier.

“Attached? He never mentions him, I don’t even think he really remembers—”

“He does.”

She paused. “Oh,” she said, frowning as she processed that. “What did he say?”

“That Ed was almost his dad.”

Benson sighed. “That was a long time ago. Noah didn’t know any better, Tucker was the closest thing to a father that he knew.” She took in the angry set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes, and she got to her feet. “What they had wasn’t the same as what you—”

“No. Because Tucker just disappeared from his life, didn’t he? He broke up with you _and_ Noah.”

“He didn’t break—” She paused, took a calming breath. “I don’t want to talk about Ed with you,” she said.

“No, you never did, did you?” Barba responded, and he watched her body stiffen. He wanted to call the words back, but couldn’t. They were true; her relationship with Tucker had nearly destroyed her friendship with Barba, and they’d never really discussed it. They’d moved past it, Barba shoving aside his hurt—and yes, a sense of betrayal—because he cared too much about her friendship to risk losing her.

The wound had never really healed, though. And now it was about more than just her, and his hurt feelings.

“Do you really want to do this _now_?” she asked, spreading her arms. “It’s a little late for jealousy, isn’t it, Rafael?”

He knew that she was lashing out in defense, now, but that didn’t make the words sting any less. “It’s not about jealousy, it’s about trust,” he heard himself say, and he cursed himself when he saw the look on her face.

“Wow,” she said with a smile tinged with bitterness. “You don’t trust me.” She raised her eyebrows. “No, that’s really good to know.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “For God’s sake, of course I trust you,” he said.

“That’s not what you just said.”

“ _That’s_ not what I just said,” he shot back, his temper flaring. “I just never knew we kept secrets, so you’ll forgive me for having trouble—”

“I thought we’d moved past this. I apologized for not telling you from the start. It was _years_ ago. And maybe deep down I knew you’d react poorly.”

Those words settled into his chest, feeding his heartburn. “Or you were afraid I’d report you,” he said.

She stood there, staring at him with her lips parted and her eyes bright with emotion. Anger, but there was pain beneath. She didn’t answer.

“You knew I’d react poorly? You didn’t give me a chance!” he exclaimed, the words bubbling out of him before he could choke them off. “You think I wouldn’t have done my damnedest to be _happy_ for you if you’d come to me and said you were in love with that asshole?”

“He’s not an asshole,” she said. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” she added, trying to rein in her temper. She took a step toward him, but Barba took a quick step backward. His eyes were flashing with anger, but she could see the pain in every line of his face. He looked stricken, and she remembered the way he’d looked at her when he’d first realized that she was dating Tucker.

 _You and I are done talking_.

Those words had cut deeper than she would’ve believed possible, and in that moment she’d wondered if she hadn’t lost him forever. He’d shut down, shut her out, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d never wanted to hurt him, but she _had_ , and she knew that he was right. If she’d gone to him from the beginning and confided in him about her relationship with Tucker, he would’ve been supportive. He would’ve done his very best to hide the hurt and jealousy behind his eyes. She hadn’t told him because she’d been trying to protect herself. She hadn’t wanted to look at Barba and wonder _what if?_

“Rafael,” she said, holding out a hand. “Neither of us can change the past. It’s ridiculous to fight over something—”

“Ridiculous? Thanks. Once again, for the vote of confidence. Well, you know what? I don’t think it’s ridiculous, because he broke Noah’s heart.”

“No matter what Noah might’ve said, he barely remembers Ed,” she said. She was trying to diffuse the situation, now. She’d pushed Barba into this outburst, but she hadn’t realized exactly how much pain and anger had been simmering inside of him. She should’ve known. “He was a toddler—”

“Rosie’s age. Don’t you think she loves me? Loves you?”

She snapped her mouth shut, unsure how to respond.

“Don’t you think she remembers her real—” He grimaced. “Her biological mother?”

She swallowed and released a shaky breath. “What do you want me to do, Rafa? Call Tucker to come back and be Noah’s father?”

He was horrified to feel tears burning his eyes, and he tried to blink them back. “If Noah asked to see him, I wouldn’t stand in the way,” he said through barely-moving lips.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” she said. “But that’s not going to happen.”

“Of course I wouldn’t? Does that mean it wouldn’t matter if I did?”

She ran her hand through her hair. “For God’s sake—What do you want me to say, Rafael? Please, tell me. You think I don’t value or respect your opinions about Noah? I married _you_. I gave my son _your_ last name. I adopted _your_ daughter. Tell me what I’m doing wrong, here.”

The room swam out of focus, and for several moments he couldn’t breathe through the pain. He blinked, and the tears rolled over his cheeks. “Nothing,” he said, his voice cracking in the middle of the word. “I’m sorry, Liv. I’m—I’m sorry.”

She stepped forward and took hold of the front of his t-shirt. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Talk to me,” she said. “You’re hurt. Tell me why. Because I embarrassed you at the park? Because I was afraid to tell you about Tucker? Because you think Noah misses him? Tell me how to reassure you.”

He worked his lower lip between his teeth, staring at her. “I didn’t mean I don’t trust you, I meant you don’t trust me,” he murmured.

“What? Of _course_ I do. I’m not sure how I could’ve made that clearer than our honeymoon—”

“Our honeymoon. You had a gun pointed at your head.”

She swallowed, her face twisting at the memory. “So did you,” she whispered.

“And you drew it onto you.”

“You’re upset because I want to protect you? That’s what love—”

“Because I can’t protect _you_ ,” he said. “Every day, you put your life in danger and I can’t protect you. We go on our _honeymoon_ , I can’t protect you. I hit that guy in the fucking karaoke bar, and you were still the one who subdued him. I can’t be trusted to defend our kids in a playground. I couldn’t even be trusted to protect our _friendship_ when you started dating someone.”

She stared at him. “Raf, I—”

“You’re right, anyway. I’m proving your point right now.” He took a step back and spread his arms, but she didn’t release her hold on his shirt. “This is me being an asshole, having an irrational meltdown—”

“Then I guess it’s about time,” she said.

He blinked, surprised.

“I’ve had my breakdowns, haven’t I? And you’ve always been there to pick up the pieces.”

“I—”

“You’ve come close. So many times, you’ve come close to losing it, haven’t you? But you always pull yourself back. Pull yourself together. For me. For Noah. For Rosie. For your mother, your grandmother. For everyone. I want to protect you because you do nothing to protect your _self_ , Raf. I lost it, that night after the…the holdup, after seeing you with a gun pointed at your face. I _lost_ it, I lost my _self_ , and you pulled me up and pieced me back together. But I didn’t give you a chance to deal with your feelings about seeing me with a gun to _my_ head.”

“Olivia,” he said, her name tearing itself from his chest. He stepped closer, felt her knuckles pressed against his chest as she gripped his shirt.

“You almost lost it when Rosie showed up, and I told you to get yourself together for her.” He shook his head, tears spilling over his cheeks. “And you did,” she continued. “I’ve never for a moment thought you were _weak_ , Rafael, you’re stronger than me, stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. Sometimes I take it for granted. And you let me.”

She searched his face. His hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wanted to reach for her, grab her, hold her, but he didn’t think he deserved it. She could see it written in his eyes: his apology, his self-loathing. She raised one of her hands and pressed her palm to his flushed cheek, and his chin quivered as he looked at her.

“Any time we ever fight, you always come around acting like nothing happened and we just go on back to normal,” she said.

“Because I don’t want to fight with you,” he mumbled.

“But that’s just it, you never make me apologize.”

He sighed, his expression tightening. “You don’t have to apologize for your life, for fuck’s sake.”

“I have to apologize for letting you say you’re fine when you’re not. For taking your strength for granted. For being relieved when you don’t hold me accountable for my selfishness.”

“You are not selfish,” he said. “You’re the most selfless person I—”

“No, honey,” she cut in softly, rubbing her thumb along his jaw. “You gave up your job—”

“I’m still doing my job, just in a different place.”

“You embraced fatherhood without batting an eye—”

“I batted,” he said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could’ve and you would’ve. And you’ve always forgiven me for every stupid thing I’ve said and done, even when it hurt you. Maybe because you never pushed me about Tucker, I never…really explained.”

“You don’t have to. I had no right—”

“It wasn’t just you and our friendship I was trying to protect, but myself. I wanted _you_ , Rafael. And that scared the hell out of me. When you looked at me, that day in your office, when you guessed—when I saw your face, and you said we were done talking, I _knew_ that I’d hurt you. More than I’d known I could. That’s the moment I realized that I wasn’t alone in my feelings, but I was a coward. I ran away from it, from you. And I hated myself for it, especially for watching Ed playing with Noah and wishing it were you, instead.

“I am selfish, I am when it comes to you. I kept you at arm’s length but never let you go. And when I found out about you and Carla, I was upset, jealous, as if I had any right, as if I hadn’t hurt you and pushed you away until you went to someone else for comfort. I made you think I’d chosen Tucker over you, but that was never true. I chose to protect myself. But things are different now. You gave me more chances than I deserved, but we’re here, now. This is our family. I’ll do anything to protect it, and to protect you, not because you need it but because I need you.”

His chest was rising and falling against her knuckles, and she could feel his jaw working against her palm. He searched her face. “I want to be enough,” he said in a ragged whisper, and the words pierced her heart. There were so many admissions tucked inside those five words, things that he couldn’t voice. She heard the words that he couldn’t say, about a lifetime of never feeling quite good enough no matter how hard he worked or how much he accomplished.

“Honey, you’re more than enough. You’re the glue in this family, in my _life_. I love you so much that it still catches me off guard every day.”

He reached for her, finally, wrapping his arms around her, and she pressed close against his chest as he buried his face in her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“No,” she answered, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “I’m sorry. I love you,” she repeated.

“I know,” he said, his arms tightening around her. After a few seconds, he turned his face and kissed her temple, raising a hand to her hair. “I’m just…I don’t know. Tired.”

She pulled back to look at his face. His eyes were shiny, but it wasn’t just from the tears. She’d thought his cheeks were flushed in anger, but—She lifted a hand to brush his hair from his sweaty forehead. “You feel warm,” she said, her brow wrinkling in concern.

“I don’t feel very well,” he admitted. “But it’s—”

“It’s not fine,” she cut in, giving him a pointed look. “And I know you don’t need me to take care of you—”

“Who said that?” he said with a small smile.

“You have an upset stomach?”

“Yes.”

“Headache?”

He nodded.

“Fever,” she said, brushing her hand over his forehead and down his cheek. “Flu?”

He managed to shrug a shoulder. “Could be something I ate. We got hot dogs for lunch.”

She arched a brow. “You? Food poisoning? You eat like a goat and never get sick.”

He laughed quietly before sniffing and saying, “It’s not so bad. Anyway, we’re flying out first thing in the morning. I’m not going to let a bad hot dog or a bug ruin Noah’s birthday trip.” She leaned forward to kiss him, but he turned his face to the side. “If I do have something, I don’t want—”

She put her hands to his cheeks, turned his face, and pressed her lips to his. She drew a breath through her nose before pulling back to look at him. “Did you take anything?”

“No.” He tipped his head forward, leaning his forehead against hers. “I’m just tired,” he repeated.

“I’m going to get you some Tylenol. Go get in bed, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay. I love you, Liv.”

“I know, honey.”

A few minutes later, she was slipping into bed behind him. Barba was lying on his side, facing the edge of the bed. She’d turned the light off, and she pressed up close against his back, wrapping a protective arm over him. He settled back against her, gladly taking the comfort she was offering. She kissed his shoulder, and then his back.

Her hand was resting against his stomach, and he covered it with his own. “Having a fever’s no excuse for acting like a jackass,” he murmured. His eyes were closed against the pain in his head, but her soft breath against his neck was soothing.

“Barba, I thought you were a jackass the day we met,” she answered, and he chuckled. She kissed his back again. “Didn’t take me long to realize I was wrong.” She hesitated. “A little longer to _admit it_ , maybe,” she allowed, and he laughed again. “But I promise I’ll never keep secrets from you.”

“I know. It’s sometimes…hard to let go of the thought that…” He sighed. “I’m feeling sorry for myself, is all.”

“I cared about Tucker but I wasn’t in love with him. I couldn’t be, because I was in love with you. Then, now, and always. I’ll be happy to say it whenever you need a reminder, even if you’re acting like a jackass. I need you to promise not to shut me out when you’re angry or hurt, though. Yell if you need to yell. Don’t bottle it up inside because you’re afraid you’ll somehow break us. We’re unbreakable, Rafa. You’re stuck with me forever.”

“I’ll never shut you out,” he vowed, tightening his hold on her hand. “You or the kids.”

“Go to sleep, honey, you’re burning up. I wish I could make you better.”

“You already have,” he murmured sleepily.

 

*       *       *

 

Barba woke with a start. His heart was slamming in his chest, and his stomach was roiling, burning. His head was pounding. Bile stung the back of his throat, and he rolled toward the edge of the bed, afraid he was going to be sick. For a moment, he thought that’s what had pulled him from sleep. Then he realized that Benson was already swinging herself out of bed behind him, and he heard the crying.

Rosie, calling to him from her bedroom.

He pushed himself up and hung his legs over the edge of the bed. Blood roared in his ears, and dizziness buzzed through his head. He paused to get his bearings. He felt miserable.

“I’ll get her,” Benson said. She hesitated in the doorway. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. She seemed unsure, but Rosie was calling out, sobbing, and that took precedence. He watched her slip from the room, and he swallowed against the burn in his throat. He pursed his lips and released a breath, trying to focus through the pain in his head. He could hear her talking to Rosie, could hear Rosie calling for him, and he pushed himself to his feet.

He walked toward his daughter’s bedroom and stopped in the doorway. Benson was sitting on the edge of the toddler’s bed with Rosie on her lap, murmuring words of comfort to calm the crying child. Rosie was holding onto her, but when she caught sight of Barba she threw out an arm and said, “ _Papaaaa_.”

Barba met Benson’s eyes for a moment, could see her concern and knew that he must look terrible. He didn’t want to risk getting her or Rosie sick, but he supposed that ship had already sailed. He couldn’t deny his daughter’s summon. He padded into her room.

“What’s wrong, _mija_?” he asked. “Bad dream?”

She held up her arms, and when he reached down, Benson lifted the girl into his embrace. Then the lieutenant got to her feet and touched a hand to Barba’s forehead. “I’m going to make some tea and get you some medicine,” she said quietly, and he nodded before carrying Rosie to the rocking chair. They were supposed to be up in two hours, anyway. There wasn’t much sense in going back to bed, now, but he didn’t want to think about how long the day was going to be.

“Shh, shh,” he told Rosie as he sank gratefully into the chair. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

“ _Duele cabeza_ , Daddy,” she said.

“ _Donde_ , baby?” he asked. She touched a finger to the band-aid on her forehead. “Nowhere else?” She shook her head. “Okay, _mija_ , let Daddy kiss it.” He carefully touched his lips to the bandage before shifting her more comfortably against himself. “Go back to sleep, honey. Next time you wake up, we’ll go on an airplane, and then we’ll be at Disney World. You’ll get to see Mickey and Minnie, and Pluto, and—”

“Dumbo.”

“Yes,” he said, kissing the top of her head. He closed his eyes. He really didn’t feel well, and he sent up a silent prayer that he could keep himself together for the sake of the kids and Benson. They’d put so much time into planning this trip for Noah’s birthday, and they’d even arranged to take Noah out of school for two days so they could go on his actual birthday, rather than waiting for the weekend. Barba and Benson had agreed that it would probably benefit them, because the crowds would be much smaller on a school day in the fall.

“Sing Dumbo, Daddy,” Rosie mumbled against his shirt.

He sighed softly. “If you go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” she said.

Barba rocked the chair slowly, straightening and flexing the bare toes of one foot against the floor to match the rhythm of the song as he started singing softly: “ _Baby mine, don’t you cry. Baby mine, dry your eyes. Rest your head close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine_.” He kept his eyes closed, ignoring the acid burning in his stomach. He settled into the motion of the chair, and the warm weight of his daughter curled against his chest, and he let himself drift while he sang. His thoughts were fuzzy, but his tongue knew the words. He was singing the Bette Midler version rather than the Disney, but Rosie didn’t seem to mind.

“ _Little one, when you play, pay no heed what they say. Let your eyes sparkle and shine, never a tear, baby of mine. If they knew all about you, they’d end up loving you, too. All those same people who scold you, what they’d give just for the right to hold you. From your head down to your toes, you’re not much, goodness knows. But you’re so precious to me, sweet as can be, baby of mine…_ ” He continued to rock, humming softly. He knew that Rosie wasn’t sleeping, but she was close.

He heard a quiet rustle in the doorway and opened his eyes to see Benson standing there, watching him. Her expression was soft, and when their eyes met, her lips curved into a tired smile. He was overwhelmed by his love for her; it changed the ache in his chest, making it more bearable.

“Does she feel warm?” he asked softly. He couldn’t be certain, because his own body temperature felt out of whack.

She crossed the floor quietly and touched her wrist to Rosie’s forehead. “I don’t think so,” she said.

Rosie opened her eyes and shifted her head. “Mommy?” she asked.

Benson and Barba looked at each other for only a moment, each registering the significance of the single word—the first time Rosie had used it.

“Yes, I’m here, sweet girl,” Benson said, brushing Rosie’s hair back from her face. “Let’s get you back into bed, okay?”

Barba saw Noah appear in the doorway. “Hey, buddy, what’re you doing up? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Noah answered as Benson looked back at him. “Is Rosie sick?”

“I think she just had a bad dream, honey,” his mother told him. “Go back to sleep, we have to get up in a couple of hours. I’ll come tuck you back in.”

“Can Dad do it?” Noah asked.

Benson glanced back at Barba. “He’s gonna put Rosie back to bed.”

“I’ll come in in a few minutes,” Barba told him.

“Okay,” Noah said, turning away.

Benson started to follow him, but Rosie held up her arms. “Mommy,” she said, and Benson hesitated.

“Mommy is putting Noah to bed, little love,” Barba said. He got carefully to his feet, gritting his teeth against the lightheadedness that made the room spin around him. He swallowed against his rising gorge and drew a deep breath through his nose. Benson was watching him, searching his face. “Come on, back to sleep, that was the deal,” he said after a few seconds, crossing to the toddler bed to tuck his daughter in.

“Mommy,” Rosie repeated.

Benson looked at Noah, who’d paused in the doorway. “Sweetie, go get in bed and I’ll be right there.”

“It’s okay, I can do it,” the boy said quietly before padding down the hallway.

Barba suppressed a sigh and tucked the covers up to Rosie’s chin. Bending over her made the blood roar in his ears, but he kissed her forehead. “Daddy and Mommy love you, Rosie, please go back to sleep. We have a big day coming up.”

Benson bent down to kiss the girl, too, and looked up at Barba. “I’ll stay here for a few minutes,” she said, reading the misery in his face. He nodded and walked out into the hallway, trying to regulate his breathing. His stomach was roiling, burning, clenching, and he swallowed convulsively, fighting the nausea.

He made his way into the bathroom and sank onto the edge of the tub, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. He flipped up the toilet seat just in case, and then put his head in his hand and closed his eyes, concentrating on his breaths until the stomach cramps had lessened.

“Raf,” Benson said. He hadn’t heard her come into the bathroom, didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there stewing in his own misery. She sank into a crouch beside him and put a hand on his knee. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Here, take this.” She put pills in his palm and he popped them into his mouth without seeing them. “Drink. It’s a little hot.” She tipped the mug to his lips and he sipped at the steaming tea, swallowing the medicine. The liquid burned his throat, but it was a soothing burn.

“Noah?” he asked, blinking her face into focus.

“He’s sleeping. They’re both sleeping. Baby, are you okay? If we need to postpone the trip—”

“No, no, we can’t do that,” he said. “It’s Noah’s birthday, and we’ve paid for plane tickets and park passes and an ungodly expensive suite—”

“Noah will understand if you’re sick, and we bought the trip insurance. We can reschedule—”

“No, I don’t want—I’m okay, Liv. I’ll be okay. I just—they’re not sick, right?”

She sighed, rubbing gently at his thigh. “It’s probably just a matter of time,” she said. “If you’re sure about going ahead with this trip—”

“I am.”

“Then let’s just hope for the best. Come on, let’s get you back to bed. You can sleep for another hour at least.”

She stood and held his arm, helping him to his feet. “I should go check on Noah,” he said.

“He’s sleeping,” she repeated. “He’ll be back up in no time. Come on,” she said, leading him toward the bedroom. He followed wordlessly. His whole body was achy, and he released a shaky breath when he settled onto the edge of the soft bed. “Here, drink this first. It’ll help you sleep and hopefully make you feel better.”

“I don’t like being sick,” he mumbled, taking the hot mug from her.

She laughed quietly, brushing his hair back with her fingers. “No one does,” she said. “But in all the years I’ve known you, this is only the third time I’ve ever seen you sick. And lucky for you, this time I’m here to take care of you.”

He managed a smile, looking up at her. “I love you,” he murmured.

 

*       *       *

 

When he woke nearly two hours later, his eyes felt swollen and scratchy, as though he’d cried himself to sleep. His wife was sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, already showered and dressed. He turned his head with a grimace to look at the clock. It was still dark outside, but she’d let him sleep longer than he’d planned.

“The kids are having cereal. They’re grumpy, but hopefully they’ll doze on the plane. The bags are all ready, we just need to throw in your toothbrush, razor, and deodorant after you’re ready. You can take a shower, we have almost forty-five minutes before the car will be here.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he answered honestly. “But I’ll be alright.”

“Do you want breakfast?”

He wrinkled his nose, his stomach tightening at the thought of food. “I should eat something,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Traveling…”

“How about a yogurt smoothie?” she suggested.

He considered. “That might be okay,” he said.

“Okay. I’ll make you one. You get up and ready, call me if you need me.”

“Alright.”

She pressed her wrist against his forehead. “Take some more medicine, I left it on the bathroom counter for you.”

He nodded, pushing himself up with a wince. She gave him a quick kiss and he watched her leave the bedroom. He drew a bracing breath and got out of bed, swaying for a moment before getting a handle on himself. He made his way into the bathroom, sparing only a quick glance in the mirror. He knew he looked terrible; he could feel it.

He flipped on the shower and stripped off his sweats and t-shirt, tossing them into the hamper before stepping into the hot spray. He scrubbed the water into his face and then just stood there for a couple of minutes, letting the steam build up around him as the water massaged his skin.

When he emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, he felt relatively human. The combination of the shower and Tylenol had beaten his headache into a dull pressure in the back of his skull. He could deal with that. He could compartmentalize. He eyed the smoothie that his wife had kindly made for him, and was determined that he could deal with that, too.

“Happy birthday, buddy!” he said, smiling at Noah. “We have a present for you to open before we leave, and then we decided since we’re going to be at Disney World, it would be best to let you pick out what you want while we’re there.”

Noah perked up a bit. “Anything?” he asked.

Barba chuckled and glanced at Benson. “Anything within reason,” he allowed. “You find what you want and we’ll open negotiations.”

“I get presents?” Rosie asked.

“You can get some souvenirs,” Barba said, noting that she had a new band-aid on her forehead. “But today is Noah’s birthday. You got presents on yours, remember?”

She pursed her lips in a pout and dipped her brows into a frown. Benson immediately scooped her up and said, “Come on, Rosie, let’s go get your shoes on so Dad can have his breakfast. The car will be here soon,” she added, shooting Barba a pointed look. He nodded once and sank into a chair across the table from Noah.

He sipped at the drink; it was good, but he wanted to make sure his stomach wasn’t going to revolt. He wanted coffee but didn’t dare try. “Are you excited?” he asked Noah. “Just a few more hours.”

“Yeah.” Noah peered at him. “Are you sick?”

“A little bit,” Barba said. “But don’t worry.”

“Do you wanna not go anymore?”

“Of course I do. We’re going to go have lots of fun.”

“I heard Mom say we should cancel.”

“She didn’t—” Barba hesitated, regarding the boy. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Noah shook his head. “I was waiting for you,” he said.

Barba grimaced. “Noah, I’m sorry. I thought you were asleep and I—”

“It’s okay,” Noah cut in, turning his attention to his soggy cereal.

“It’s not okay, I said I would be in and I should have.”

Noah shrugged a shoulder, frowning at his bowl. “Are we still gonna go on Space Mountain?”

Barba’s stomach clenched at the thought of a rollercoaster. He’d been trying not to think about the upcoming flight, let alone the following rides. “Of course,” he said. “If not today, then definitely tomorrow or—”

“Tomorrow’s not my birthday,” Noah said, his scowl darkening.

“I know. But this whole trip is for your birthday, buddy. I’ll try my best, alright? I just can’t promise—”

“It’s fine, I don’t care,” Noah said. “It’s prolly stupid anyway.”

“Noah, we’ll go on the ride. We’ll go on all the rides you want.”

“Noah, come put on your shoes,” Benson called from the other room, and the boy pushed his bowl away before slipping off his chair. “You need to open your present, too. It’s something for the plane ride.”

“Let Rosie open it,” Noah said.

“Me, me!” Rosie agreed excitedly.

Noah didn’t look at Barba as he left the table. Barba wanted to call him back, but he stopped himself. They were all sleep-deprived, and they had only a little bit of time before they had to leave. There would be time to address their issues later. He got carefully to his feet and went to wash the breakfast dishes so they wouldn’t have to deal with them on Sunday.

 

*       *       *

 

They’d survived the trip, somehow—Barba had spent fifteen minutes in the airplane bathroom with Rosie, trying to convince her not to have a meltdown over, as best he could tell, the fact that her complimentary cookies had been broken. Noah had spent the entire flight with his headphones on while he scribbled furiously in a coloring book. Benson had somehow managed _not_ to send up a string of angry curses when Rosie—who was dividing her time between their laps, and Barba couldn’t remember _why_ they’d forgone buying her a seat for the three-hour flight—spilled a cup of Sprite all over her shirt.

They’d survived the check-in at the hotel, and they’d stowed their luggage in their suite before heading over to the park. It was still early, but it was considerably warmer than New York had been when they left, and they changed into lighter clothes. By the time they made it into the park, it had begun to sprinkle.

Barba was doing his best to feel the Disney magic; he was doing his best to keep his absolute misery from his face, but he couldn’t hide it from his wife. He couldn’t keep the drag from his steps, or the sweat from his pale brow, or the grimace from pulling down the corners of his mouth when Noah asked about the birthday breakfast he’d been promised.

“Sure, we can—” Barba said, even though he could already smell the food and his stomach was twisting unpleasantly in response. He didn’t want to dampen Noah’s excitement; the boy had finally shaken off some of the morning’s gloom, and was reveling in the sights of the park around them.

“Let’s wait a little bit,” Benson cut in, though, seeing the expression he tried to hide. “Let’s look around first.”

Noah didn’t object, even though he cast Barba a quick—and, Barba thought, accusing—look as they continued walking. Barba tugged the collar at his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was the damp heat of the air, or his illness, but his clothes felt too clingy, too constricting. Sweat was already running down into the small of his back.

“Dumbo!” Rosie shouted excitedly, hopping up and down and pointing at the Flying Dumbo ride. “Mommy, Daddy,” she exclaimed, turning to grab their sleeves. Barba smiled; he couldn’t help it. The girl’s face was lit with excitement.

Benson looked at Barba. “Are you up for any rides?” she asked quietly.

He eyed the attraction, swallowing. It would be a relief to sit, at least. And it was relatively tame—a flying Dumbo couldn’t be worse than an actual plane ride, could it? He didn’t want to disappoint the kids. He looked at Noah and asked, “What do you think, you want to try this one?”

“This one’s for babies,” Noah answered sullenly. Barba wasn’t really surprised. He knew that Noah would enjoy the ride if he’d let himself, but Noah wasn’t in a _trying_ sort of mood.

“We can all go together,” Benson suggested. She reached out to ruffle Noah’s hair, but he ducked his head out of the way. “It’s only the first ride, we’ll get to the bigger stuff.”

“I don’t wanna. You guys can go.”

“Noah,” Benson started, with a touch of warning in her voice.

“Daddy, _Dumbo_ ,” Rosie insisted, pulling on his hand.

Benson and Barba exchanged a look. “Do you want me to take her?” she asked.

Barba shook his head. “I’ll do it. Do you think I’d be the first grown man to throw up on a Flying Dumbo?” he asked with a small twist of his lips.

“No, actually,” she laughed, but her expression was etched in concern. “If you’re sure, then we’ll wait here.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking up at the ride and once more tugging at his shirt collar. “Yeah, we’ll be right back.” He let his daughter pull him toward the ride. There were hardly any other patrons; it was a school day, and it was raining—although nothing serious, yet—and Barba was grateful for the lack of lines and crowds. _Small favors_ , he thought.

When he returned to Benson’s side fifteen minutes later, his ability to feel gratitude—or anything remotely charitable—had drastically decreased. His stomach was a churning mess, and sweat was pouring down his back and sides and the mixture of misty rain and perspiration had his clothes sticking to his body. His head was pounding, and his muscles felt weak and achy.

“Honey, you look terrible,” Benson said.

He managed the smallest of smiles. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Why don’t you go back to the room and lie down for a while. I’ll take the kids to eat and we’ll explore a bit, hit some rides, and we’ll come back to the room to see if you’re up for going out to dinner.”

“I’m not going to leave you here with—”

“Rafael,” she said, in her _don’t be ridiculous_ voice. “It’s not even noon yet. We’ve got the next two days. You need to take care of yourself. Maybe if you actually let yourself throw up, you’ll feel better.”

He grimaced and shook his head. “I’ve only thrown up four times in my life and I mean to keep it that way,” he said, swallowing against the sting of bile as if to demonstrate his point.

“Four—How is that possible?” she asked. Then, before he could answer: “Never mind, just go back to the rooms.”

He looked toward the kids. “I can’t.”

“You can. They’re going to be disappointed about things, Raf. He’ll get over it, and hopefully you’ll be better tomorrow. But your health is more important right now. I need you to go lie down. I can handle the kids but not if I end up having to scrape you off the pavement.”

The heavy guilt in the pit of his stomach didn’t help his nausea, but he knew that she was right. He wasn’t doing any of them any good. Maybe another shower, a fresh dose of medicine, and a quick nap in a cool, quiet room, would be able to work miracles.

“Alright,” he relented. “If you’re sure,” he added.

“I’m sure,” she said, touching her hand to his cheek for a moment.

“Call me if you need me,” he said.

“Same goes for you,” she answered, giving him a pointed look, and he nodded.

He looked at the kids. “Sorry, _mi niños_ ,” he said. “You two be good for Mom, alright? I’ll see you in a little bit for supper.”

“Papa?” Rosie asked uncertainly, reaching for his hand.

“Papa’s not feeling well, honey,” Benson said, taking the girl’s hand in her own. “He’s going to rest, and the three of us are going to have fun while he works on feeling better, okay?”

“Okay,” Rosie said, though she seemed far from convinced.

“You said you’d—” Noah started, but his mother quickly cut him off.

“Sweetheart, he can’t help it that he’s sick. And we care more about him feeling better than whether we get to go on the best rides today or have to wait until tomorrow, right?”

Noah considered, sulking. “Yeah,” he finally said.

“I’ll make it up to you, Noah,” Barba said. The boy didn’t answer. Suppressing a sigh, Barba started away. Behind him, he heard Noah mutter under his breath.

“He wasn’t sick for _her_ birthday.”

Barba turned back, but Benson shook her head at him and made a shooing gesture with her hand. Barba was too tired to argue, and he reluctantly left her to deal with the sullen boy, cursing himself as he went.

 

*       *       *

 

Benson drew a shuddery breath, shifting off her knees and onto a hip on the dirty floor. She had one arm crooked over the toilet seat to support herself, but she had bigger concerns than thoughts of germs. The stomach cramps had finally subsided enough for her to catch her breath, but her whole body felt weak and shaky. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, her shirt stuck to her body.

She fumbled her phone from her pocket, but she wasn’t sure she could speak. She sent a quick text with one unsteady thumb: **r u up**

It had been over four hours since she’d sent him back to the room, and she hoped he was awake and well enough to come. She needed him to be well enough to come.

Barba answered quickly. **Yes. Feeling much better. Where are you?**

**Need u to come get kids im sick**

She should’ve known he wouldn’t let her get away with that. Her phone rang in a matter of seconds. She sniffed, drawing another shaky breath before answering.

“What’s wrong and where are you?” he asked without preamble.

“I’m sick,” she managed. “Happened pretty fast. Kids are outside the bathroom, I need you to come.”

“I’m on my way. Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Flu? Food poisoning?”

“Jesus, Liv, I’m so sorry, I’ll be right there, honey. Put me on speaker so I can hear you.”

“You want to hear me puking?” she asked. Another cramp rolled through her stomach, and she shifted forward, trying to concentrate on breathing. “Oh, God,” she muttered, switching the call to speaker with a trembling thumb before sliding the phone onto the back of the toilet.

“You’re alright, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

“And what? Carry me to the room?”

“Yes,” he said, and she managed a weak laugh in spite of her pain.

“Are you really feeling better?”

“Yes,” he said. “A lot better.”

“Good. Maybe this won’t last long, then.” She paused, drawing a breath. “The poor kids,” she muttered. “This trip is cursed.”

“No it’s not and they’ll be fine. And so will you.”

She lurched upward, barely getting her face over the bowl before her stomach forced up what had to be the last of its reserves. She gagged, tears streaming from her eyes. From the phone, she heard Barba curse; in his voice she heard his love, his concern, his feelings of guilt and helplessness, and she closed her eyes, knowing he would be at her side as soon as he could. He might not be able to make her well, but she wanted desperately to feel his comforting hands.

 

*       *       *

 

“Pigeon!”

“That’s not a pigeon,” Noah said with a scowl, kicking at a pebble. “Stupid,” he added under his breath. Rosie looked at him, and her forehead wrinkled even as the corners of her mouth turned down, and he knew she’d heard him. He felt a rush of guilt, but he didn’t want to apologize. She should be able to tell the difference between a pigeon and a seagull.

“Noah?” she asked, and the hesitation in her voice broke through his anger. She was barely more than a baby, it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know anything yet. He opened his mouth to say he was sorry, but she looked toward the bathrooms and said, “Mommy’s sick.”

The anger came crashing back without warning, and it was too big for Noah to process. He reeled under the weight of it, and said the only thing he could think of: “She’s my mom.” He almost said more. He almost said something about hers being _dead_ , but he didn’t. Even _thinking_ the words felt unforgivable, and he felt sudden tears burning his eyes. “She was mine before you got here,” he mumbled, trying desperately not to cry.

“Mommy?” Rosie asked uncertainly.

“Mine,” he said. “And…and so was he,” he added, even though he knew it wasn’t really true. Before Rosie had come along, Noah’s mom and Rosie’s dad had only been friends. To Noah, he’d been _Uncle Rafa_ , and he’d only become _Dad_ because of Rosie. But at least when he’d been Uncle Rafa, Noah had been the only kid he cared about. Now he had his _own_ kid, his _real_ kid, and there was no way Noah could compete with that. She looked like him, so much that complete strangers were able to look at them and recognize that Noah didn’t belong.

Rosie’s lip was quivering, but Noah’s anger was bigger than his guilt. It was bigger than anything, and it was the only thing protecting him from the pain underneath.

“Go chase the bird,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

He thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She turned away from him and started toward the seagull, and Noah watched her. _Maybe she’ll get lost_ , he thought. _And then they’ll love me the most again._ He felt the tears spilling over his cheeks and was powerless to stop them. She toddled after the bird, and the bird wandered toward the theater, keeping an eye on the girl.

“Are you alright?” a woman asked Noah, startling him. He looked up. She had several kids, and the look on her face was one he recognized: the expression of an exhausted single parent who only wanted a moment of peace. She was damp, and so were the kids; so was Noah. The rain hadn’t gotten heavier, but it hadn’t let up, either. It had been a steady drizzle all morning and afternoon.

“Yes,” he said, swiping at his cheeks with a hand.

“Where are your parents?”

“My mom’ll be out in a minute,” he said, gesturing toward the bathroom. The woman glanced in that direction and looked back at Noah. She seemed unsure. “I’m watching my sister,” he added, pointing toward Rosie in the hopes the woman would realize he was responsible enough to be left alone.

“Well. Better not let her wander off,” the woman said, as Rosie followed the bird further away.

“I won’t,” he said. _They wouldn’t love me_ , he thought. _They’d hate me_. His eyes and nose and throat and stomach all burned. He watched the woman wrangle her kids on their way, and then he looked back at Rosie. He knew he’d already let her wander too far away. They were supposed to stay right next to the bathroom door, that’s what his mother had said. Rosie was still following the bird, as if she had any chance of catching it.

She turned the corner and disappeared around the side of the theater, and Noah felt a surge of alarm. He started forward, his heart suddenly slamming in his chest. _Don’t get lost, don’t get lost_ , he thought desperately, and it wasn’t only because his parents would blame him. If anything bad happened to her, they _should_ blame him. He was supposed to be looking after her, was supposed to be her big brother.

He rounded the corner and pulled up short. She was talking to a man. She was pointing at the bird and chattering away, apparently telling the stranger all about the seagull. The man was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with Mickey on the chest, and a lightweight jacket that was held open by the hands he had stuffed in his front pockets. He had a red baseball cap on, with Goofy’s face on the front. Noah had the immediate sense, without being able to identify or explain it, that the man was _trying too hard_. He had no children with him; in fact, there was no one else in sight, and Noah felt a slither of unease. He didn’t trust the man’s smile for an instant, and he considered running back to the bathroom for help.

He couldn’t do that, though. His mother was sick, for one thing, and he was responsible for Rosie until one of their parents showed up. More than that, he couldn’t leave her alone.

He forced his feet to carry him closer, and the man looked over at him with a smile. “Hey, sport,” the guy said. “Does this little beauty belong to you?”

“My sister,” Noah answered, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers—especially this kind of stranger. Noah moved up to Rosie’s side and put a hand on her shoulder, which she immediately shrugged off with an annoyed sound. “We’ve gotta go,” Noah said, once more settling his hand onto the girl’s shoulder. This time he held on, refusing to let her shake him off. He didn’t know what he would do if she decided to throw a tantrum. He supposed his best bet would be to yell for help if the guy tried anything. There weren’t very many people in the park, but it was by no means deserted.

Noah looked toward the theater. Surely there were people working inside—But, no. His stomach sank when he saw that it was closed off with what looked like police tape, except it didn’t say _Crime Scene_ on it.

Rosie didn’t pull away. She turned her head to look up at him, and she seemed to sense that something was wrong. Noah didn’t want to scare her, and he didn’t want to jump to conclusions—Goofy Hat hadn’t done anything, he was just talking, smiling—but the boy’s heart was slamming in his chest. Something was wrong. Noah suddenly realized that the man had shifted, subtly cornering the kids.

It was Barba’s voice that he heard in his head: _You have good instincts. I have faith in you_. Noah swallowed. The man glanced up and down the walkway before looking at Rosie. His smile widened.

 

*       *       *

 

Barba looked around. There were a few adults with young children in tow, but the rain had begun to fall harder, and most people seemed to be calling it quits for the day, heading for the exit. He was going to flag a woman down to ask her to check in the restroom, but they all look frazzled and busy. After a few moments of indecision, his concern drove him to knock on the bathroom door.

“Liv?” he called. He was still holding the phone to his ear, but he needed to make sure he was at the right bathroom.

“Yeah,” she answered.

“Is anyone else in there?” he asked.

“No, you can come in.”

He hesitated, looking around, before walking into the bathroom. He supposed being detained by security and kicked out of the park would be a fantastic way to end their disastrous first day. He saw her feet sticking out from one of the stalls, and she unlatched the door as he approached.

He looked down at her. “Jesus,” he breathed when he saw her pale face and the dark smudges beneath her eyes. He slipped his phone into his pocket. “Let’s get you back to the room. Where are the kids?”

She frowned, swiping her hair back with a shaky hand. “They’re outside.”

He shook his head, his stomach slithering uneasily. “I didn’t see—Wait here,” he said. He stepped out of the bathroom and looked around, scanning every child in sight. None of them were his, and he felt the first fingers of real fear beginning to squeeze his stomach. He took a breath; he couldn’t let himself overreact. They had to be close by and had probably just moved somewhere out of the rain.

 _They would’ve gone back into the bathroom_ , he thought, unable to stop the unease sliding through him. _They wouldn’t wander off. Noah wouldn’t wander off_.

Benson appeared beside him. She looked unsteady, and she had a hand pressed to her stomach. She looked worse than he had earlier, but she was on her feet. “Where are they?” she asked. “I told Noah to stay right here next to the door until either you or I got them.”

“They probably just walked a bit,” he said. “Are you okay? Sit down and I’ll go up here and check—”

“It hasn’t been very long,” she said, and he could see the fear and guilt beginning to twist her pale face.

“It’s alright,” he told her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, Noah wouldn’t wander off, okay? They must be somewhere close. Don’t panic.”

“I left them out here alone—What was I thinking? I know how quickly—”

“Liv,” he said. “The place is crawling with kids and parents. Let’s look around the corner.”

 

*       *       *

 

“I need you to stay calm, Mrs. Barba—”

“It’s Lieutenant,” she interrupted. “Manhattan Special Victims. Don’t tell me to stay calm—” She looked at his nametag, “—Gordon. I need to see the surveillance footage _now_.”

“Ma’am—Lieutenant—I assure you, the photos of your kids have been sent to every employee. There’s no chance of them leaving the park, either alone or accompanied—”

“Unless they already left,” Barba cut in. He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to _think_ it, but there was no way the kids would disappear on their own.

“Do you have any reason to suspect the kids might’ve wandered off? You say you were at your hotel, and you—” The head of security, Tom Gordon, looked at Benson “—were sick, is it possible the kids were upset, angry, or even just wanted to go exploring?”

Before Benson could answer, Barba said, “Our son wouldn’t run off, especially not with his sister in tow, no matter how upset or angry he was. And he certainly wouldn’t go _exploring_ while his mother was sick.”

The man hesitated. “Kids do all sorts of things we might not expect,” he finally said. “Listen, we see it all the time. If there’s a specific ride, or attraction, or character that they wanted to see, we can start there. Nine times out of ten—”

“You’re not listening,” Benson said. “We need to see the footage from the security cameras outside the bathroom. We’re losing time.”

“We’re working on it—”

“Work faster,” she snapped.

Barba put a hand on her arm. She looked like she was about to fall over, and while he was far from operating at a hundred percent, himself, he was now in far better health than she was. _I never should’ve left them_ , he thought, but he shoved the guilt aside. It wasn’t productive. He knew that she blamed herself, and she was doing her best to tamp down her guilt, as well. Nothing mattered right now except finding the kids.

A young man walked over to the head of security and whispered something in his ear. “Excuse me a moment,” Gordon said, turning away from Benson and Barba.

“If this is about—” Barba started, but the man held up a hand without looking back. He raised a phone to his ear and murmured something that Barba couldn’t make out.

“We have to get back out there,” Benson said. She turned abruptly and hurried toward a trash can, snatching it up. Barba stepped up to her side and grabbed her hair back from her face, gathering it into a loose fist as she vomited into the can. He rubbed her back with his other hand, turning his face away with a grimace as his stomach lurched in response.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, praying it was true. “We’ll find them—” He stopped when Gordon returned to them with a tablet.

“We found them on the footage,” the man said, but something in his expression immediately sent a cold slither through Barba. “Here, you can see them outside the bathroom. It looks like the little girl is following a bird—”

Benson set the can on the floor with a loud clunk and snatched the tablet from the man’s hands. He opened his mouth to object and thought better of it. Benson held the screen up so she and Barba could see the security camera footage. Barba realized after a moment that he was still holding her hair, and he let go, settling his hand against her back, his eyes glued to the screen.

They could see Rosie following the bird; the woman with several kids talking to Noah, and him pointing toward his sister; Rosie disappearing around the corner, and Noah hurrying after her. Then the footage switched to another camera, and they saw the man talking to Rosie. Barba’s whole body went cold, and he sent up countless silent prayers as they watched Noah approach Rosie and the man.

“Oh my God,” Benson muttered as the man casually moved to the side, placing himself between the kids and the way they’d come.

There was no audio; they couldn’t hear what the man was saying, or what the kids were saying, but Barba and Benson could read Noah’s body language, and neither was surprised when the boy suddenly grabbed Rosie’s arm and broke into a run. The kids went under the cordons closing off the theater and disappeared into the building. The man looked over his shoulder; no one was nearby. After a moment, he crossed quickly to the tape, ducked underneath, and followed the kids through the door.

The head of security grabbed the tablet from Benson’s grasp a second before it would’ve fallen from her fingers. “The door should’ve been locked,” he said. “The whole theater’s closed for maintenance. There’s no power so we’re still working on getting the cameras back online, but we’ve fast-forwarded the video and there’s no sign of him or the kids coming out that door.”

“Jesus Christ, we were right there,” Barba said through numb lips. “I walked right past—Let’s go,” he said, grabbing his wife’s hand as they both broke toward the exit.

“Hold on, we don’t know what—Shit,” Gordon said, gesturing for security to follow them. “Get me the footage from inside the theater, _now_ ,” he said as he hurried to stay in front of Barba and Benson. “And figure out who the guy in the red hat is, when he got here, if he was alone. Get his image to every staff member along with the pictures of the kids, and see if we can get the lights on in the theater.”

“But if they’re hiding in the dark—” Barba started as they hurried out of the security office into a downpour.

“No, he’s right,” Benson said. She was clutching Barba’s arm for support. “Most likely it’ll scare him off if…if he’s…”

“Okay,” Barba said. “They’re okay, Liv. We just need to get there. Noah’s smart. They’ll be alright.”

“There are tunnels under the building—under all the buildings, for the most part,” Gordon said as they hurried through the rain. “We’re still looking for them on other cameras, they definitely haven’t come out the way they went in. And the tunnel entrances and elevators should be locked since the building is closed down, but the front doors should’ve been—”

“Can you run?” Barba asked Benson.

“Go, go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He hesitated, searching her face. They were soaked already, their hair and clothes plastered to their skin. She was pale, weak, feverish; how quickly their positions had reversed.

“I’m okay, you’ll get there faster,” she said, letting go of his arm. “I’ll be right behind you, go find our kids.”

Barba broke into a run, and two security guards flanked him. By the time they reached the theater, other security members had already arrived and were going into the building. Someone tried to hold Barba back, and he shoved their hands off and ducked beneath the tape. He glanced over his shoulder before going inside; Benson wasn’t far behind, jogging through the rain, breathing heavily.

“We’ve got him,” someone called. The lights were on in the theater, and Barba had a moment to appreciate the speed and efficiency with which security had executed this whole thing. They would make SVU proud. “There’s no sign of the kids.”

“Check the elevators—” Gordon started.

“That’s where we got him, as soon as the power came on he was trying to go down. The stairs are locked.”

“Search the place top to bottom, they have to be here somewhere.”

Barba cupped his hands around his mouth. “Noah! Rosie!” he shouted, and he heard several guards take up the call. He saw the man in the red cap being escorted by two men, and Barba started toward them. “Where the fuck are my kids?” he asked. Someone grabbed his arm, but he jabbed a finger at Goofy Hat’s chest. “Where are they?”

“What kids?” the man asked, raising his eyebrows beneath the brim of his cap. “I just ducked in here to get out of the rain. You missing some kids?”

“So help me God,” Barba said, stepping up close to the man in spite of a restraining hand on his arm, “if you laid a finger on them, I will take you apart and no one will ever find the pieces.”

“A threat?” the man asked with a smirk. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Raf?” Benson called from somewhere behind him, and Barba forced himself to step back. He wanted to strangle the man in front of him, make him tell them where the kids were.

“We saw you talking to them,” the head of security told Goofy Hat. “You followed them in here. Where are they?”

“Oh, _those_ kids?” the man asked with a smile. He shook his head. “No idea. I told them they shouldn’t come in here.”

“You followed them,” a security guard said.

“I was worried they might get hurt.”

“You said you were getting out of the rain,” Barba reminded him.

“That, too,” the man answered, still smiling.

“You chased them in here.”

“Nope. No idea why they ran inside someplace they shouldn’t be.”

“No? Well, I trust my son, and he ran from you,” Barba said, turning away before he lost control of his fists. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called for the kids, again. Benson was yelling their names, and so were the guards.

“We got the footage, but it’s dark,” one of the men said, holding up a tablet. “We can see them come inside but then we lose them in the dark. Since the lights came on, we haven’t seen them. They’re not answering—but they have to be in here. They didn’t get into the stairs or the elevator, they didn’t go out the front or back door—”

“What parts of the theater don’t have cameras?” Barba asked.

“The…bathrooms,” the man said. “The dressing rooms. They could’ve gotten into either in the dark without us seeing them on the cameras, I suppose, but we’re looking—there’s no sign of them.”

“Check the garbage cans in the bathrooms,” Benson said. Barba could hear the barely-controlled tremor in her voice, and he turned and met her eyes. “Any garbage cans, boxes, cupboards, bags like suitcases—” She held up a hand when Barba took a step toward her. “Let’s split up,” she told him, and he could see the fear in her face. He did his best to shove his own fear down, to bury it inside of himself so they could both focus on what needed to be done. He nodded once and turned, following one of the guards.

In less than a minute, they were in a dressing room. They checked every potential hiding spot—inside an armoire, inside a large Rubbermaid box, inside a wastepaper basket that was too small even for Rosie to fit. They moved on to the next dressing room. Throughout the theater, people were still calling for the kids as they searched every nook and cranny.

Barba stepped into the room and his eyes immediately landed on the trunk in the corner; a large antique wooden chest with a huge metal lock on the front. He stepped closer and saw that the trunk was latched. He swallowed against the burn of bile that had nothing to do with the flu. He reached out a hand and tried to lift the lid, but it didn’t budge.

“I don’t see—” the guard started, but Barba held up his other hand, silencing him.

The blood was roaring in his ears, his heart was slamming in his chest. “Noah?” he asked, praying with every last bit of himself. “Rosie?”

For a moment there was nothing. Then, faint, barely audible: “Dad?” It was Noah’s voice, and Barba felt himself swaying. He put a palm against the wall over the trunk to steady himself.

“I’m right here,” he said. Then, to the guard: “Get this open. There must be a key. Or break it. Give me something to break it.”

“Let me find something—”

Barba turned and scanned the room. “Liv!” he yelled as he grabbed a makeup brush and promptly dropped it as he recognized its uselessness.

“Try the latch,” the guard said.

“It’s locked,” Barba snapped.

“No—slide the latch, it probably just fell down when the lid closed, see?”

“Shit,” Barba said. His hand was shaking as he shoved the button in with his thumb and flipped the latch up. He grabbed the lid of the trunk and lifted it, holding his breath as it creaked upward and settled back against the wall.

Noah and Rosie were huddled down in a mess of colorful clothing, Noah with his arms wrapped around her and a hand over her mouth. Both kids blinked up at him, wincing at the sudden brightness, and Noah lowered his hand, releasing the girl.

“ _Daddy_ ,” Rosie immediately cried, holding up her hands. Barba grabbed her up and she threw her little arms around his neck, holding onto him for dear life.

“Shh, Daddy’s here, it’s okay,” he was murmuring, even though he felt like his heart was going to tear through his ribcage. The relief spreading through him was making his whole body shake; his legs felt weak, but he held his daughter, breathing in her familiar scent, overcome with emotion. He looked into the trunk, where Noah had pushed himself upright and was sitting in a pile of clothing, staring up at him. The boy’s cheeks were streaked with tears, his chin trembling as he tried to keep himself together.

Barba reached down a hand, but Noah stayed where he was, fresh tears spilling from his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Barba asked the boy, his stomach clenching in renewed fear.

Noah shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Noah,” Barba started.

“Mommy!” Rosie suddenly called, pushing away from Barba, and he turned as Benson hurried up to his side.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, grabbing Rosie as the girl reached for her. “Noah, baby, are you okay?”

As soon as Benson had Rosie, Barba turned and grabbed Noah under his arms, hauling him out of the trunk and into a hard embrace. He hugged the boy to his chest, kissing his head, holding him so tightly that he had to force himself to loosen his grip so he wouldn’t crush the kid.

“You’re safe,” Barba said, barely aware of the words leaving his mouth. “I’ve got you, sweetheart, it’s okay. You did a good job, Noah, you did such a good job.”

Noah had begun to sob against Barba’s wet shirt, and Barba could feel the boy’s narrow body trembling. Noah wrapped his arms around Barba’s neck. “I didn’t mean it,” he said between sobs.

“ _Shhh_ , Mommy and Daddy are here. You did just right, _mi corazón_ , it’s all over.”

Benson had her arm around Barba and Rosie clutched to her shoulder, but Noah didn’t reach for her as Barba might’ve expected. Instead he clung to Barba’s neck, crying.

“Are you hurt?” Benson asked her son. “Did he hurt you?”

“We—we—hid,” Noah sobbed, “but the—the—lid got—stuck, and I couldn’t open it—but he—he—”

“Did he hurt you?” Benson repeated.

Noah shook his head against Barba’s shirt. “He wanted Rosie,” he said, and Barba met Benson’s eyes. “But he couldn’t find us.”

Barba’s arms tightened around Noah, and he looked at Rosie, trying not to imagine what could’ve happened. “You did perfectly, _mijo_ ,” he said through numb lips. “It’s all over, you’re safe now.”

“The police are on their way, but we found footage of him coming into the park. He entered with a group of students and chaperones on a field trip, but they left shortly after noon. We’re not sure if he was with them or just snuck in so it would look like he was part of their party, but the police will sort—”

“We know why he was here,” Benson said, her arm tightening around Barba’s back.

“We can’t jump to conclusions,” Gordon said. “No one is hurt, and he said he was only—”

“I believe my son,” Barba cut in.

“Right, of course. We’re detaining the man until the police arrive.”

“Noah said hide,” Rosie said, lifting her head to look Benson in the eyes. “Be quiet,” she added, raising a hand to cover the lieutenant’s mouth.

“That’s right, honey,” Benson said, gently pulling the girl’s hand away. “It’s all over now, though.”

When they walked out of dressing room, Goofy Hat looked over and said, “Oh, good, you found them. Now they can tell you I never touched them, and you have no reason to keep me here. I’m leaving.”

Benson turned toward Barba and he shifted Noah, holding out an arm without question to take Rosie. The girl went to him readily, and she laid her head on his shoulder. Barba adjusted his grip on Noah; the boy was too big to be easily held in one arm, but Barba wasn’t about to let him go.

Benson stepped up in front of Goofy Hat and lifted her phone, snapping two quick photos—one, and then another right after the smug expression had slipped from his face.

“What the hell—” He started forward, but the two guards grabbed his arms.

Benson didn’t flinch. “We can’t run fingerprints until the police get here, but I can go ahead and get a head start on facial recognition.”

“You can’t do that—”

“I can. In fact, I just did. As simple as a text to my sergeant,” she said, sliding her phone into her pocket.

“I haven’t done anything. These aren’t even cops, they can’t detain me.”

“Oh, but I am.” She didn’t bother to mention how far she was outside her jurisdiction. “And you’re not going anywhere until we figure out who you are. I dare you to resist.” She looked at Gordon. “Give me your zip ties,” she said, gesturing toward the security boss’s belt.

Goofy Hat threw up an arm, catching one of the guards in the nose and sending him staggering back a step. The man in the red cap tried to bolt, making a break for the exit and dodging the guards that tried to grab his arms, but he’d only made it a few running steps before he was sent sprawling, and in a moment Benson was kneeling on his back, holding one of his arms wrenched up between his shoulder blades.

The man was bucking and cursing, and the guards were hurrying forward to help her subdue him, but Barba knew she didn’t need their help. Goofy Hat was lucky that she had so much self-control.

“Mommy’s mad,” Rosie whispered near Barba’s neck, and he smiled in spite of himself. The relief he felt, holding his kids in his arms, was indescribable. With them in his arms, he was invincible. He knew that his wife was running on a similar rush of endorphins, and she would likely crash—hard. But not now. Now, she was in cop mode, and she was in protective mother mode, and that was a combination that no one should underestimate.

“She’s not mad,” Noah said quietly, turning his face against Barba’s wet shirt to look at Rosie. “She’s tough.”

“Yes, she is,” Barba murmured, kissing Noah’s hair.

“Daddy’s tough,” Rosie answered, and Barba was touched by the absolute confidence in her voice. He supposed she would outgrow that and soon realize that he didn’t hold a candle to Benson, but he hoped that Rosie would never lose her faith in his ability to protect her.

Barba didn’t expect Noah to answer. He was surprised when the boy said, barely above a whisper, “Mom says he’s the toughest person she knows.”

Barba’s arms, aching under the weight of the kids, suddenly felt less tired.

 

*       *       *

 

“You really need to lie down, Liv, before you fall down.”

“I’ve got all this…nervous energy,” she said, waving her hands in the air as she paced. "Adrenaline, you know."

“I know. I feel like I should be bouncing off the walls. But you’re burning up, honey.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, peering at him. Her eyes were shiny with fever, her cheeks flushed dark. They’d changed into dry clothes, and Rosie was sleeping in their bed. Noah was on the small couch, hugging a stuffed animal to his chest and staring blankly at Toy Story on the TV.

Barba wanted to wrap all three of them in his arms until he could finally breathe easily, but he needed to talk to Noah first. Benson had already talked to the boy, but Noah and Barba needed to have their own conversation.

“You saw his police record,” Benson said, dropping her voice into a whisper. She stopped and turned toward Barba, and he could see the unshed tears shimmering in her eyes. “Rafa, you know what he wanted to do—what he would’ve done—”

“But he didn’t,” he said, barely suppressing his rising gorge. He shook his head and reached out, putting his hands on her shoulders. “He’s in custody and he’s not getting out any time soon. And our kids are here, they’re safe. We’re all together, in this stupidly expensive suite.”

She didn’t crack a smile. “He snuck into Disney World, Rafael,” she said. “He was just looking for a neglected kid—”

“Our kids are not and were not neglected, Olivia,” he cut in. “And you know what? He might’ve sneaked into the park looking for an easy target, but he misjudged and picked the wrong kids. Because Noah is your son, and you raised him to be smart and brave and strong, and because of him, that _asshole_ is done slipping away into the shadows.”

“We raised him together,” she said.

Barba shook his head. “Noah is my son. I claim him with all of my heart and soul, but I can’t take credit for what you went through as a single mother.”

“But you were there, too,” she said, putting her hand against his chest. “As Uncle Rafa—do you really not see how much impact you had, long before you and I got together?”

“Liv, what I see right now is that you’re about to pass out. Please, go lie down.”

She sighed and scrubbed her hands over her face. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.” She looked at him. “You’re feeling okay?”

“Not great but much better.”

“You didn’t throw up at _all_?”

He grimaced. “No. It came out the other end.” He offered a small, sympathetic smile. “But hopefully you’ll feel better by morning. And we’ll just pray the kids don’t get it, or at the very least not until we get home.”

She sighed. “Okay. I’m going.”

He leaned forward and kissed her hot forehead. “I love you, Liv.”

She held the front of his shirt in her fists for long moments as she stood with her eyes closed and his lips pressed to her head, and they both drew deep breaths, taking comfort from each other. “I love you, too,” she finally said, drawing away. She met his eyes. “Always.”

He followed her to the bed and tucked her in. Rosie was sound asleep, curled on her side with her hand fisted near her face. Barba made sure there was a full cup of water on the bedside table, and kissed Benson softly on her dry lips, before leaving her to rest.

He walked to the couch. Noah was sitting with his legs drawn up onto the cushion. “May I sit?” Barba asked him, pointing at the sofa.

Noah looked up at him and nodded, hesitantly.

Barba sank into the couch with a grimace, barely suppressing a groan. His body was full of aches and pains. “This hasn’t been a very good birthday, huh?” he asked.

Noah shrugged a shoulder and looked at the floor.

“I imagine you heard all that stuff we were saying,” Barba said.

“I wasn’t trying to listen,” Noah muttered.

“We weren’t trying to keep secrets,” Barba countered softly. “It’s a fine line here, Noah, and I’m not sure I know how to properly walk it. On the one hand, I don’t want you to be scared, knowing that that man has done some very bad things. On the other hand, you deserve to know the truth, and to know that your instincts were right. That you did the right thing.”

“I yelled for help but no one came,” Noah said, his lower lip trembling.

“I know,” Barba said, settling a hand onto the boy’s shoulder.

Noah had already told his story to the police—the man had reached toward Rosie, and Noah had pulled her into a run. He said they couldn’t go back the way they’d come, because the man was blocking their way. Noah yelled for help as they ducked under the cordon around the theater entrance, but no one answered the call. The man had checked to make sure no one was responding before following the kids inside, and that had given them enough of a head start to find a hiding place, but as soon as Noah pulled the lid down on the trunk, the lock latched, trapping them inside in the small, dark space. Rosie had started to cry, and Noah had soothed her as best he could, putting a hand over her mouth to muffle her.

“It’s my fault,” Noah said.

“No,” Barba answered.

“I…” Noah struggled to keep his face from crumpling. “I told her to leave me alone,” he finally admitted in a near-whisper, and Barba could feel the boy’s narrow shoulder tensed beneath his hand. Noah looked sideways at him, waiting for condemnation.

“You were angry,” Barba said. “Sometimes we say things we don’t really mean, when we’re angry or…feeling hurt.”

A fat tear spilled over Noah’s cheek, and he picked at the bottom hem of his shorts.

“Noah, I know it’s hard to put into words what you’re feeling sometimes, especially when your feelings are bigger than the words you know. And confusing. So I’m going to take a stab at this, alright? And you tell me if I’m right or wrong. That man in the playground yesterday, that little girl’s dad, he said some mean things. About me, and about you. Maybe you think I should’ve hit him, and believe me, I wanted to. But you know that violence is never a first solution, and I can’t expect my kids to follow an example that I don’t set, can I? But his words hurt me because they hurt you. And then you asked for your toy and I snapped at you—”

Noah shook his head, fresh tears spilling. “I should’ve left it, it didn’t matter.”

“It did matter, it mattered to you, and I was wrong. I went to get Rosie’s doll, and maybe you thought that _I_ thought it was more important, but the truth is, I just didn’t want to go back over there, Noah. I was embarrassed, because I felt like I didn’t defend you properly, and I was angry and still wanted to fight and was afraid I might lose my temper. And last night, when I told you I would come tuck you in—”

“You were sick.”

“I was sick,” Barba agreed. “But if I’d known you were awake and waiting, I would’ve come in. Honey, we thought you’d gone back to sleep. I’m sorry. And today has been a disaster. I promised you a special breakfast and a ride on Space Mountain, and all I did was take Rosie on a ride you didn’t want to go on and then come back to the room to sleep. On your birthday. And the lady at the front gate, who said how much Rosie looks like me? She didn’t see the look on your face, but I did. And then your mom got sick, and you were left to watch after Rosie. We all know she can be a handful sometimes. And it was your birthday. I know it must not have felt fair.”

“I…know she’s your…really real kid,” Noah said, swiping at his cheeks with his palms.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Barba asked. Noah looked at him and nodded, unsure but curious. “You know Ed, who used to date your mom?” Noah’s eyes widened, and something like guilt flitted across his features. He nodded again. “Well, the truth is, I used to be jealous of him. Not just because I wanted to date your mom—which I did—but because I wanted to be your father. I wanted to take you on vacations, and make you breakfast, and tuck you into bed. I wanted to be your dad, Noah, but I didn’t think I knew how. I didn’t think I was good enough. And then when I found out about Rosie, I was scared. I didn’t know what to do, how to take care of her. But your mom knew—and _you_ knew. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help. You made her feel safe, showed her that she could trust me, and you had so much patience, Noah. So much patience.

“When I realized that I might be good enough to be her father after all, do you know what it was? I realized that I loved her the way I love you, that I would do anything to protect her the way I’d do anything to protect you, that I want to make her happy and proud—Noah, I know how jealousy feels. I heard you talking about Ed the other night, and how he was almost your dad—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Listen to me. I was wrong. I wasn’t feeling well, and I was upset, and I let my mind play tricks on me. You were talking about Ed because you were hurt, because you thought I love Rosie more than I love you. And I was hurt because I thought maybe you wished Ed was your dad instead of me.”

Noah shook his head. “I always wanted you to marry my mom,” he said.

Barba nodded. “You know what I think, Noah? I think you and me, we’re lucky. Most people don’t get to choose their families, but I got to pick you to be my son and you got to pick me to be your dad. And nothing that anyone says can change that. Because you and I know the truth, right?”

Noah hesitated, considering. “That…I’m your son?” he finally asked in a small voice.

“You’re my son and you have a piece of my heart that will never, ever belong to anyone but you. I don’t know what the future might bring, _mijo_ , your mom and I might adopt more kids someday, when you and Rosie are a little bit older. There are a lot of kids in the world who need help, who need a loving family and home, and we—the four of us—we could provide that. But you will always be my son, my first son, the one who made me want to be a father.

“And you can always talk to me about anything. Anything, always, okay?” When Noah nodded, Barba said, “Is there anything you want to ask me, or talk about?”

Noah shifted toward Barba and crawled up onto his lap, wrapping his arms around Barba’s neck, and Barba hugged him, kissing his hair. “I’m sorry I said mean stuff,” Noah said.

“I know you are, sweetheart. It’s okay to get upset sometimes. We can talk it out. Most things can be talked out, in my experience. I love you forever, Noah. No matter what.”

“I love you, too, Daddy,” Noah murmured, tucking his head under Barba’s chin and laying his cheek against his chest.

Barba closed his eyes, releasing a slow breath. “So, _mi cielito_ , what do you say you and me order something special from room service and we can have a birthday dinner to make up for me missing your breakfast?”

“Can I have waffles?”

“Absolutely.”

“They make ‘em look like Mickey Mouse, I saw on the menu.”

“Yeah? Do they come with whipped cream and strawberries?”

“Yep.”

“Then I think I might need some of those, too. And tomorrow, you and I are going on Space Mountain, as many times as you want. I promise.”

“What if you’re sick again?”

“Hey, if I throw up, I throw up,” Barba said, and Noah giggled, snuggling against his chest. Barba rubbed his back. “We’ll figure out the details in the morning depending on how well your mom feels. We have Saturday, too, although it’s gonna be a lot busier then with the kids whose parents didn’t pull them out of school.”

Noah laughed. After a moment, he said, “And we can go on the Dumbo ride, for Rosie. She loves Dumbo.”

“She does love Dumbo,” Barba murmured, giving Noah a brief squeeze. “We’ll figure all that out tomorrow and Saturday. Right now, let’s get some waffles, yeah?”

“Yeah. Can I have a milkshake, too?”

“Hmm. Can _I_ have a milkshake?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. Then we’ll both get shakes.”

“We could order one for Mom and Rosie, too, for when they wake up. There’s a freezer.”

“That’s a very good idea. Come on, let’s find the room service menu.”

 

*       *       *

 

Benson opened her eyes. She didn’t know what time it was, but it was late—or early. The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the alarm clock behind her and the soft breaths of her family. She was lying on her side, and Rosie was curled against her chest, snuggled into her heat. Noah was on his back beside the little girl, his arm thrown over himself so that his hand was resting on his sister’s back.

Barba was on the other side of Noah, on his side so he was facing the three of them. He had one arm bent under his pillow, and his other arm was over both kids, his hand resting heavily on Benson’s hip. She knew he was awake by the quiet sound of his breathing; he liked to claim he didn’t snore, but she knew better.

After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and their gazes met in the dimness.

“Hey,” she said quietly, offering a smile.

He shifted his head on his pillow. “Hey,” he answered. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yeah. Still a little queasy, achy, you know, but at least it seems to be a short bug. You?”

He smiled. “Better. Nothing can touch me here,” he added, looking at their sleeping kids.

“Hmm. Nothing can touch us while you’re here,” she murmured.

“Hey,” he said, “we’re family. We all look after each other.”

“Aren’t we lucky,” she answered.

“Nah,” he said. “We chose this. We made this. This is ours.” He hesitated. “On the other hand, I feel pretty damn lucky,” he added, grinning when she laughed. “Rest up, Liv. Tomorrow is going to be perfect, I can feel it.”

“Are you going to throw up on Space Mountain?”

“Never,” he vowed, and she laughed again. “But I’m going to spend an obscene amount of money buying the kids so much Disney crap that we’ll need to get a new suitcase to haul it home.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned.

“Don’t worry, you can get whatever you want, too.” He grinned, running his fingers over her hip.

“I have everything I want,” she answered.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly. “I know the feeling.”

 

*       *       *

 

“I wish we could go to the old park,” Noah said, eying the playground.

“I know you do,” Barba answered. It had been over a week since their trip to Florida. The kids, miraculously, had avoided whatever bug had knocked down both parents. Now, it was Saturday afternoon, and Benson was on a call, leaving Barba to take the kids to the park for the first time since the altercation. “Moving was a big adjustment for all of us, and it’s going to take some getting used to. I think you’ll learn to love this park.”

“That mean girl is here,” Noah said. “And her dad.”

Barba had already spotted them. The girl was in the sandbox again, with a bucket and shovel. “People don’t always _mean_ to be mean,” Barba said. “Anyway, we don’t need to go looking for trouble. We’ll mind our business.”

“What if she picks on Rosie again?”

“We’ll cross that—Hey,” Barba said, pointing toward the swingset. “I see one familiar face.”

Noah looked and exclaimed, “That’s Gable!”

Barba laughed. “Yeah. I guess he must live around here, huh?”

“Gable?” Rosie said.

“He’s my friend from school,” Noah told her. “You don’t know him. Can I go play with him?” he asked Barba.

“Of course.”

When Noah started away, Rosie said, “I play,” and toddled after him.

Barba scooped her up. “No, no, love, Noah is going to play with his friend and you are staying with me.”

“No!” Rosie said, kicking her feet.

“Yes,” Barba countered. Noah had hesitated and was looking at them, so Barba smiled and gestured with his chin. “Go ahead,” he said, and the boy turned and jogged over to his friend at the swings. “Rosa Lucia Barba.” Rosie stopped struggling, startled by his tone. “Stop kicking me or you’re going to be sitting in a timeout. Is that what you want?”

“No, Papa,” she said. She scowled, but there was caution behind the gesture.

“Good. Then settle down and you can go play, but not with Noah right now.”

“Slide?” she asked hesitantly.

“If you want. Do you want Daddy to catch you?”

She considered before smiling. “Yes!” she said, and Barba grinned, planting a quick kiss on her nose before she could squirm away. He set her on the ground and she ran toward the slide. Barba trailed after her, glancing toward the father of the girl in the sand. The other man was standing at the edge of the park, hands in his pockets. His daughter was playing alone, singing under her breath, and Barba felt sorry for her in spite of her previous aggression.

He looked toward Noah and Gable; they were laughing together, and Barba was glad that Noah had a friend to ease the pain of transitioning to a new playground. As he watched, Noah bent his head close to Gable’s and whispered something in his ear, pointing toward the girl in the sandbox. Gable nodded, and both boys started in that direction. Barba glanced toward the other father, saw him tense.

“Catch, Papa,” Rosie said. She was at the top of the slide.

“I’ve got you,” he promised. A moment later, she was coming at him at full speed, laughing, and he bent and scooped her up as she got to the bottom of the slide. She giggled, wiggling in his arms. Barba looked over at Noah and Gable.

“Hello,” Noah said to the girl in the sandbox, and she looked up, blinking in surprise. “This is my friend, Gable. What’s your name?”

She scowled up at them, and Barba could see the distrust in her young face. She didn’t trust kindness from other kids, and that was sad. He saw her considering her options, and he wasn’t sure if she would answer. Finally, she said, grudgingly: “Aurora.”

“Wow,” Noah said, dropping into the sand across from her. “Did you know that’s Sleeping Beauty’s name?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“I didn’t know,” Gable admitted, standing beside the sandbox.

“Then you’re dumb,” Aurora said.

“We don’t call people dumb,” Noah told her. “It’s not nice. If you want to be our friend, you have to be nice.”

“I don’t like being nice,” the girl shot back.

“You prolly just need to practice,” Noah said, and Barba almost laughed out loud. “We can help you, if you want. You just have to promise not to hit. My dad says most things can be talked out.”

Aurora opened her mouth and promptly closed it, clearly unsure how to respond.

“I went to Disney World for my birthday, but I didn’t see Sleeping Beauty. We saw lots of others, though. Do you want to come play with us?”

Aurora considered. She looked down at her bucket and shovel. After a moment, she nodded.

“Okay,” Noah said, getting to his feet and brushing the sand from his jeans. He held out a hand to help her up, but she ignored it as she stood. Noah seemed unperturbed. He looked back at Barba and smiled. He was proud of himself, and Barba was overwhelmed with love and pride.

Rosie was unusually still in his arms, watching the scene play out. Finally, she looked at Barba. “I play?” she asked.

Barba smiled and put her down. “Be nice,” he said as she hurried over to her brother.

“I’m nice,” she answered without looking back.

“Rosie, this is Aurora. We’re gonna be friends now, okay?” Noah said.

Barba looked over at Aurora’s father and offered a smile, shrugging. He didn’t wait for a response, turning toward the benches. He was surprised to see Benson walking toward him. “Hey, babe,” he said, his face splitting into a grin. “You done for the day?”

She nodded, smiling as she stepped into his waiting embrace. “Things seem to be going better this time,” she remarked after planting a quick kiss on his lips.

“We lucked out and got pretty great kids,” he said.

“Luck?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “We made this family.” She smiled. “But yeah, I feel pretty lucky. Hey, you know what I was thinking?” She leaned her lips close to his ear. “We haven’t had sex in two weeks.”

“Huh,” he said, tipping his head to look at her face. “Two weeks? You’re sure? Hmm. You know, on a completely unrelated topic, I was just thinking how the kids haven’t had a sleepover at my mom’s for a while.” He gave her an impish smile that made her laugh.

“Honey, I thought we already established the kids don’t need to be _gone_ —unless you plan on making a lot of noise.”

“Noise? _Me_?” he exclaimed, looking affronted. “Only when you make me.” He caught his tongue between his teeth, grinning at her.

“I do love it when you’re noisy,” she admitted in a murmur, running a finger down his arm.

“Anyway, it _had_ occurred to me that we haven’t properly broken in the new place,” he said.

“Broken in? Does that mean you want to, like, what? Have sex on the dining room table?”

“Ew, gross,” he said, grimacing as she laughed. “The table is for _food_ , Olivia, so it only makes sense I should eat—Hey,” he said, drawing back a bit when Noah suddenly jogged up beside him. Looking down at the boy, he asked, “What’s up, buddy?”

“Can I stay the night at Gable’s?”

Benson said, “I guess so, sure, as long as it’s alright with his parents.”

“Thanks!” Noah said, turning to run back to the others.

Barba grinned at his wife. “Guess only Rosie is visiting _Abuela_ tonight. Now, what were we talking about?”

“I’ll let you decide what we do on the table if you let me decide what we do on the couch.”

“The _couch_?” he repeated, his eyebrows going up.

“I had some ideas while we were watching TV the other night. So, do we have a—”

“Deal.”

She laughed, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “That was fast.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That sentence had better not leave your lips tonight.”

She patted his chest. “I have absolute faith, Barba,” she said.

“That’s all I’ve ever needed—the faith and support of Lieutenant Benson.”

“That’s Lieutenant Benson-Barba, to you,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his smile.


End file.
